Working for an icon

When I heard of Giorgio Armani’s passing, it felt like something in me left, too. I’ve felt this before; when Matthew Perry died or when a former boss (looking at you, Kev) passed. People move in and out of our lives, sometimes briefly, sometimes from afar, but the world feels different without them. It’s as if a nostalgic chapter has closed and there’s no going back. That’s how I felt about Mr. Armani. So I started reminiscing about my time working for such a legend and felt compelled to write it down; even if only for my eyes. It was an incredible time in my life, and it deserves to be documented.

Let’s start at the beginning. 

When I was little, I’d spend hours in the fitting room at Gap, Limited Too, or Weather Vane, trying on nearly everything in the store while my mom patiently checked in and my younger brother (not so patiently) wished for my swift exit. In high school, my friends and I spent Saturdays strolling the mall, trying on all the things at Forever 21 and H&M. In college, the sales team at Urban Outfitters knew me by name. Clothing has always been a form of self expression for me. A way to say, “hey world, this is how I’m feeling today.” So naturally, when I graduated, I set my sights on a career in fashion.

I’ll never forget that first summer after graduation, the summer of 2007. My mom (thank goodness for her) schlepped around NYC with me in high heels and a blazer while the humidity turned my fine hair into damp fettuccini strands. Stale subway air rushed up through the sidewalk grates, threatening to flip my black skirt and reveal my granny panties to the world. Under one arm, I carried a professional-looking leather portfolio stuffed with 50 copies of my résumé, and in my head, the Devil Wears Prada theme was on loop. A handwritten list of corporate fashion and PR company addresses was folded neatly and tucked into my Kate Spade purse. In short, I was on a mission, and no one was stopping me. 

Except, of course, lobby security. The 9/11 attacks were still a recent nightmare, and the guards made it clear: no appointment, no elevator.

I didn’t give up easily, even convincing a kind older Irish guard to buzz me up to a famous PR firm, where I was met with confusion and a deadpan “Sure, I’ll pass this along” from a stylish secretary as she pinched my résumé between her thumb and forefinger as if it were an unwashed sock.

On day three of this valiant disaster, frustrated, sweaty, and exhausted, my mom and I limped back to the apartment (note to younger girls everywhere: never wear brand-new heels in NYC without breaking them in) and readied ourselves to meet my “cool” uncle for dinner. After bandages were applied and a glass of wine—or two—was enjoyed (hello, 21!), we ventured to the authentic Italian restaurant at the corner of 68th and Columbus. 

Dana was a caterer who occasionally staffed corporate events, serving cocktails and hors d’oeuvres to Manhattan’s business elite. Among his clients was Giorgio Armani. The moment we sat down, his eyes lit up and his brows nearly hit his hairline. I eyed him skeptically. “What’s up?” I laughed. 

“The office manager at Giorgio Armani is looking for an assistant. Should I send her your résumé?” 

And my years at Armani began.

Working at Giorgio Armani’s headquarters wasn’t just a job; it was a way of life. From day one, I was handed a coffee-table book on Armani’s history. The clothing guidelines were given to me: if you weren’t in Armani, the palette was black, gray, or white—and yes, there was a generous clothing allowance and discount. Side note: It took me years after leaving fashion to stop mentally taking 50% off every price tag. As I left HR, hefty book in hand and my (now) worn-in heels clacking across the white-tiled floors, I felt I’d made it.

I quickly realized my first assignment after accepting the job should’ve been overnighting Rosetta Stone Italian CDs to my Bronx apartment. Had you visited our office, you might’ve assumed we were in Italy: clipped, melodic Italian drifted through the halls, and executive meetings often flipped from English to rapid-fire Italian, making my job as the note-taker a challenge.

And of course, when Mr. Armani came to town, it was an event. 

One of my duties as assistant to the office manager was preparing Mr. Armani’s Upper West Side apartment whenever he came to New York. With two grocery carts in tow, I’d circle the aisles of The Food Emporium, tossing in, and checking off, each item on Mr. Armani’s approved shopping list. When I rode the elevator up to his penthouse, I’d slip off my black flats, tuck the Häagen-Dazs into the freezer, and set about making sure every room was perfect. Each Armani Casa pillow was fluffed and every cashmere throw smoothed. I’d imagine him and his guests lounging on the sleek couches and retiring to their minimalist beds each night. For a moment, I could pretend I belonged in his chic inner circle.

With each passing year, I moved up in the company. As executive assistant to the EVP of Retail, I did everything from escorting a famous Italian talk-show host around Manhattan to walking the massive white spiral staircase—clipboard in hand, Armani hard hat on—as the Fifth Avenue flagship was being built.

In the marketing department, I became the customer relationship manager and traveled to Milan, where I spent my days at the Giorgio Armani Italian headquarters, learning new technologies and lingering over long, delicious lunches. The people were incredible; brutally honest in that very European way (they’re quick to tell you if your idea is awful and will never understand the concept of iced coffee), but also brilliant, stylish, and kind. I attended my first Italian fashion show, feeling like an impostor with my lanyard and last-season Armani as fashion’s elite floated around me.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the clothes. They defined luxury. The fabrics were heavenly; the drape, oh-so-flattering. When I maxed out my clothing allowance, which was easy to do, I’d head up to the sample closet and ask the manager to loan me a look for company events. Gliding between the racks, I’d revel in the textures, breathing in the ever-present Acqua di Giò and praying for a size 6.

By year five, fashion recruiters had started calling, turns out CRM is an uncommon skill set, and I eventually moved on to a new luxury brand, though my heart never fully left the House of Armani.

As I reconnected with old colleagues when news of Mr. Armani’s passing spread, one woman, Lucinda, put it beautifully: “To my beloved Armani family around the world, I know we feel each other deeply today—bonded by our love for our Maestro and the pain of his passing. No matter the year, the role, the location, we shared the singular experience of belonging to the House of Armani—where the man, the brand, and the company were unwaveringly one.”

Heaven just got a bit more stylish. Rest in peace, Maestro. Thank you for the memories.