I Went To Paris and All I Got Was A Useless Pair of Leather Gloves
The driving gloves are purely for show, though the Grace Jones pair have purpose. Plus, a Frantic (1988) connection.
After working for the day in the mammoth Paris library, the gilded Bibliothèque nationale de France, I was searching for lunch. En route, I was immediately drawn to a glove store, Acaba Gantier. The place was a streetside peacock, each glove erect in the window as if they were ready for someone to slip them on. The leather things were in candy hues in Jolly Rancher purples, reds, and greens, and then ruddy earth tones of caramel, chocolate, and burgundy. Some were drizzled with polka dots; others, tiny coquette bows. A sickeningly fabulous pair of shearling fingerless gloves practically waved at me. They looked like they’d been skinned from an UGG boot and reminded me of something from JLo’s early ‘00s heyday.
I walked out with two pairs. One was an absolutely useless white and sky blue driving gloves, with the fingertips lobbed off and had stitching around the circular knuckle cut-outs. The other pair was a black leather iteration with thin stretches of blue geometric patches on the top.
While in the store, I could not stop thinking about Frantic (1988) with Michelle (Emmanuelle Seigner) and Harrison Ford, who plays a very American, uptight doctor who goes by his surname Walker. It’s an epic Parisian film with demented, crazed cab rides and pinky-finger, coke-huffing moments. Michelle is a cuntalicious Parisian babe who is strapped into a suffocatingly tight leather jacket dress that you just want to peel off. Walker is unhot, unfuckable, but I’ll cut him some slack: His wife has been kidnapped, so he’s choked with worry.
Michelle thrives on being rude and has the undeniable pretty privilege of doling out snarls. In one scene at the Charles de Gaulle airport where she goes to retrieve baggage with Walker, she wears a gem-laden black cloth pair of fingerless gloves as she makes the American ding-dong doctor her bitch. Because the gloves are fingerless, it’s almost as if she’s wielding her slender fingers like an unsheathed weapon as she savagely points out her suitcase. The naked finger point is, well, pointed; brusque. I love the manicured feral look of a fingerless driving glove: the protruding fingers, the bare knuckles, and the peekaboo of nails. Off-topic: In those gloves, you know this girl loves to extract a cocaine-dusted cigarette from the depths of her bag only to suck it halfway to the filter after the first drag.
A cursory search shows that driving gloves were a thing in the late 1890s during the early era of cars. The tin things lacked heat and radiated harsh vibrations that would course from the wheels through the steering wheels. The driving gloves were one of many task-oriented gloves during the era, which also included sport and strolling.
Now, my driving gloves are decorative, though the handsome clerk, who loves to BMX ride in his spare time, said they were great for texting. I said no: I don’t want to be caught holed up on the side of the street, bent over my phone, texting. I will wear them not for utility but simply for sheer sartorial overkill and a display of excess, almost like powdered sugar on a cake that dissolves in your mouth.
The next pair, which is obsidian black with slices of blue rectangles that stretch on the tops, is also related to Frantic, but the connection is slightly looser. In one scene at a sleazy Parisian club, Michelle gyrates on Walker to the Grace Jones tune of “I’ve Seen That Face Before,” which gushes from the stereo and cloaks the room. The club is bloated with wealthy men and is the pinnacle of animalistic leering. Then there’s Michelle, who understands her surroundings and toys with the club’s gaze. She completely demolishes the room while using the doctor, in a rumpled suit, as her plaything.
Michelle doesn’t wear gloves here, but perhaps because Jones is blaring, I connected the singer’s own über-angled gear, which often included a glove soldered to her hand, to my glove purchase.
I snapped up both pairs. The total was around €130, which is not a cheap price to pay, but it was worth it. (The guy gave me a €15 discount, and the Grace Jones pair was on sale.) And there was the experience! The man packed the driving glove in an orange dustbag and the other in a black dustbag. He also called me “Madame.”
Last year, I wrote an extensive piece about the allure of the glove. To wear a glove is the highest form of self-respect. Nothing comes between your hands: no tech, filth, or cold. The glove is a material boundary that the wearer should not cross until the appropriate time. To keep a glove on, especially during an era of phones as appendages, takes self-control.
There’s also the seduction factor. Cue Madonna’s above-the-elbow subversive leather gloves in “Take a Bow”. There’s the elongation of the hand, the impossibly thin yet impenetrable leather, the supple mink and rabbit-lined iterations. Gloves have the power to elevate even the most sad of outfits. There’s also the mind-body connection, such that when you slip a glove on the hand, there is a satisfying sensation when the notch of the glove snuggly hits the perlicue. It’s a signal that it’s time to hit the road and everything is in order. The glove is the cherry on the getting-ready cake.
Michelle would agree.
Mini Rando Report:
A New TRR “Comeback” drop has arrived, but this time, it is based on their resale report. Searches for Donna Karan (+216%), St. John (+163%), and Gianfranco Ferre (+270%) have all increased considerably.
I have an obvious inkling as to why Donna Karan is having a moment. Back in February, the brand—now owned by G-III (Karan is no longer involved)—relaunched some of the 7 Easy Pieces and then some with a handful of supermodels, like Cindy Crawford, Shalom Harlow, and Linda Evangelista. The creative direction was by Trey Laird, whom, fun fact, I interviewed a month before about the Peter Lindbergh-shot DKNY/NYC 1994 book.
When relaunches happen or a new creative director takes over, there’s always a burst of searches for the original thing. Perhaps the uptick has to do with nostalgia, the fact that the old stuff is actually the real deal stuff, or the old thing is simply less expensive than the new thing. Why buy New Bottega when you can get Old Bottega for less? Same with Old Old Celine or Michael Kors-era Celine. For me, at least, it feels like there is always more oomph, or rather, soul, to the older pieces.
A bit more: Donna Karan’s boardroom-minded garb is a tabula rasa for the wardrobe. I wrote about the psychological cleanse Donna had on my closet about two years ago for Vogue after my years as a Y2K-drenched young thing. Maybe we all need a dresser drawer colonic sometimes? Anyway, viva la Donna.
I got to meet Donna Karan this summer in the hamptons. She was with Jude Law. He asked me if the loo was co-ed. I nearly passed out.
I have so many gloves I need to be better about wearing! Long black leather gloves with a vintage coat 🤌🏻