Whether you call it shoplifting or shrinkage and the people tasked with stopping it the house detectives or the asset protection department, and regardless of what new technology you put into place, if you are a retailer, stealing is a problem that will never go away. When I was in high school, back in New Orleans, I worked weekends and summers at the department store my family owned and operated (and long since shuttered). I got to see firsthand the extent of the problem—which was harder to track in those days before electronic inventory controls. The manager of my department was arrested for stealing a pair of Mickey Mouse suspenders from the warehouse. He had been collared by the four-man security team brought in to replace the aging and quite ineffective store detective. During a big three-day sale taking place over a long summer weekend, as the junior and surely least valuable member of our sales team, I was relegated to sitting in the men’s fitting room, watching for thieves. All I got for my trouble was the chance to alert security to the customer who thought that the fitting room stall belonged in the men’s bathroom and had used it accordingly. That incentivized me to petition for repatriation to the sales floor and, just to be sure my position did not revert, I became the top sales person of my department during the next three-day sale.
Jump some years ahead, and now I find myself working with clients in retail on the law of asset protection. There was the time I had to work with the manager and assistant manager of one department store branch that was being sued for assault and false imprisonment by an alleged shoplifter who claimed he had been injured in his apprehension. The plaintiff appeared at the first hearing on crutches, and justice being as slow as it is, by the time the second hearing came around, he was practically pole vaulting with the things, which his lawyer, who could now hardly catch up with him, obviously told him to keep using in an effort to garner sympathy and a favorable settlement.
It was frustrating to our client, but none of that has changed much. You still need to be sure that you work with counsel to know what you can and cannot do in pursuing, approaching and ultimately challenging a suspected shoplifter. There are rules about that, and they vary from state to state. Just as an example, in New York you need to show that the suspect took possession of the item with an intention to make off with it. If you are found purposefully trying to sneak out a T-shirt by wearing it, give your lawyer a call; but if you tuck the T-shirt under your arm while paying for something else and mistakenly head out with it, you are guilty only of absentmindedness.
As long as retailers work very hard to create demand for what they sell, and as long as objects of desire hang and lie in public view, shoplifting will be a problem. As with all other problems that are certain to occur, it is always best to have policies and procedures in place and to make sure that the individuals charged with being the first line of defense—the sales staff—are thoroughly briefed on what to do. It is prudent to have counsel and the security team conduct periodic joint seminars with sales and security personnel. As with everything else in the law, the proverbial ounce of prevention will alleviate the need for the more than typically expensive, when it comes to litigation, pound of cure.
Credit: Alan Behr
The term fashion photographer typically brings to mind a specialist who works on assignment for advertisements or editorials and who brings to each shoot enough equipment to light a stadium and enough digital photographic gear to document a war. Bill Cunningham, who died on Saturday at the age of 87, did it all differently and in so doing became the essential visual chronicler of fashion in the USA.
Bill worked for The New York Times, but there is no external evidence that he took direct orders from editors—or that he deferred to the wishes of designers, subjects or anyone else. His method was to go around Manhattan on a bicycle, wearing a purposefully utilitarian and unfashionable outfit: blue French worker’s jacket, khakis and sneakers. At charity benefits and other social goings on—which is where I usually ran into him—he would switch into something black, not to be fashionable, but to blend in, rather like a stalking ninja—which, photographically, is rather the role liked to fill. His camera was typically an obsolescent (to a photojournalist) 35mm film model, and I never saw him trouble himself to carry more than one lens. He was balletic in his movements, turning, twisting, weaving and sometimes seeming to float among chatting socialites, popping off at what interested him. He was all business: if you called out, “Hi, Bill,” you were lucky to get a nod and a smile in response before he seemingly had slipped under the dress of the grandly frocked blonde next to you and emerged unseen to snap one just like her a few paces beyond.
The protocol was to pretend you did not see him even if you did, even as you silently pleaded with the gods of fashion that you had worn something worthy of Bill’s attention. (As a middle-aged man in a Henry Poole dinner jacket, I never held any such illusions.) The payoff was to have your picture in The New York Times, most often in one of the short videos Bill filed, narrated in his typically avuncular style—his high voice effusive with enthusiasm at trends and fads, some of them not known to almost anyone until he announced their ascendance.
Bill was no photographic stylist. As long as the image made his point about what was being worn, it was good enough for him. And because his eye for fashion was so unfailing, it made no matter. As Anna Wintour, the editor-in-chief of Vogue, frequently acknowledged, “We all dressed for Bill.”
If Bill photographed you, by all means, accept the honor and cherish it. Under law, you have no right to compensation for it: if he snapped your image at a benefit or on the street, you had no expectation of privacy, and so he did not need the one thing he never appeared to have concerned himself to get: a model release. Sometimes people claim that, in some published photograph or another, they were made to look bad and so try build a case around that. With Bill Cunningham, sorry: he would only photograph you if he thought you looked fantastically unique or simply fantastic. If you did look bad or (almost as unsettling) commonplace, he just passed you by. Conversely, if you managed to photograph him at work, as I did for my series of photographs of the Upper East Side party scene Naked at the Ball (the picture is above), he did not care—just as long as you did not get in his way when it was his turn.
Bill Cunningham was indeed one of a kind. The fashion world will miss him.
Credit: Alan Behr
Photo Credit: Photograph Copyright © 2015 by Alan Behr
Wow, time does fly fast!
THE FASHION INDUSTRY LAW BLOG IS CELEBRATING TWO YEARS!
On May 19, 2014, our Fashion Practice launched The Fashion Industry Law Blog. Two years and 72 posts later, we are widely read and re-posted. We hope you have signed up to receive our posts in your inbox automatically as they are published* or have visited our site from time-to-time.
During the last two years, we have published posts related to copyrights and trademarks, licensing, real estate, labor and employment and notable cases of interest to the fashion and luxury goods communities. We have also published posts classified as “general musings” — light commentary about the goings-on in fashion that may be hip, trendy or controversial.
We will continue to share timely posts targeted to designers, senior executives, entrepreneurs, in-house counsel, fashionistas and fashionistos.
We would be nothing without our readership, so, “Thank you” from all of us who have shared our thinking with you in these past two busy and exciting years for the fashion industry.
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The Fashion Law Team at Phillips Nizer LLP
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While attending the annual meeting of the Copyright Society of the USA in Newport, Rhode Island last year, I walked into a military surplus store and came out the owner of a Swiss military field jacket. I had found a row of them crowded into a single rack. All were a bit malodorous (often a hazard when buying often questionably stored surplus clothes), and although none bore a size label, all were unworn. The first one I tried on fit almost as well as something my tailor might have done up for me, and so, sacrificing the eight-dollar purchase price, I took it home. Much of the summer was occupied with airing it out, but with the first chill of autumn, I wore it on the streets of Manhattan.
It hardly drew a notice from my dinner companion that evening, which was a bit discouraging because she was Swiss. But the payoff came next time out, during a horrid day of wind, chill and rain. The jacket, intended to keep hearty Swiss conscripts dry and toasty in the worst Alpine weather, answered its calling brilliantly. Weaving among New Yorkers who stomped along in the wet ground as if persecuted, I kept up a merry pace, as warm as if I were wearing a space heater. I thought that the nipped-waist, gray-green, single-breasted, many-pocketed jacket, which would have enabled me to blend in seamlessly in an Alpine pine forest, was also quite stylish. It was undeniably practical: there was even space for a Swiss Army knife. But when my prize at last emerged from the foul weather again to rest under the sweet lights of home, my wife had this to say: “Where did you get that ugly jacket?”
That intramural sartorial challenge next led me to a website where I found a green German policeman’s jacket. This wardrobe caprice set me back a relatively dear eleven dollars plus shipping. Also unworn, it bore the fading hang tag of its manufacturer under the name it was called during the days it was a state-run enterprise in East Germany. The jacket appeared to date, however, from a time near the end of the last century when the cops in the German state of its origin (Mecklenburg-Vorpommern to you geography buffs) switched to much cooler SWAT-team coats of blue. Indeed, these green jackets do tend to make even the most warlike German Polizist look like a bureaucrat—which might well have been the intention in a nation grown uncomfortable with symbols of armed authority.
This time, the outerwear debut took place in the parents’ lounge of the Deutsche Sprachschule (German Language School) attended by my first grader on Saturday mornings. Everyone recognized it, and I got quite a few compliments, but a room full of German expats is not exactly a statistically supportable random sample for this stylistic boundary-pusher. As my son and I were heading up Lexington Avenue on our way home, we saw Eliot Rabin, who owns and designs menswear for the sophisticated Peter Elliot stores. He was busy on his mobile phone, but the moment he saw us, he excused himself to his caller, put down the phone and ran over to say, “That’s a great jacket.”
I was suddenly feeling the kind of confidence in my taste that is unmatched by any male who has not done a turn as the GQ Style Guy. As my wife opened the door for us and caught first sight of my new success, she said, “Where did you get that ugly jacket?”
So much for the old spousal imprimatur. I’ll take that under advisement–even as I troll the web for something chic in a size 38 that is a leftover from the Soviet navy.
Credit: Alan Behr
One of the mysteries that Italy presents to the world is how style seems to come so naturally and happen so easily in the nation’s disparate regions and within all walks of life. It is as if elegant design in clothing, shoes, accessories (and just about everything else) grows naturally in the surroundings, like grapes in a trusted vineyard.
Italian clothes are like California wines: world-class but once relatively unknown internationally until the occurrence of a singular event. For the wines of California, the moment came in Paris, at a blind tasting on 24 May 1976 (known to oenophiles as (the “Judgment of Paris”) during which New World wines beat their French counterparts in every category. The moment of clarity came for Italian fashion when the Florentine buying agent Giovanni Battista Giorgini invited the forces of international fashion to attend a group show held on 12 February 1951; the experience was new for all involved, so to create an appropriate venue, Giorgini simply opened up his Tuscan mansion, the Villa Torrigiani. Editors from the foreign media such as Harper’s Bazaar and, most important, buyers from foreign retailers such as Bergdorf Goodman came to have a look. What they saw in that unique group audition was something of a unitary vision—an interpretation of womenswear based on fine materials and artisanal workmanship, shown in designs embodying the Italian ideal of relaxed grace. Those clothes and others in the shows that followed looked not merely pleasing to the eye but eminently wearable—something of considerable value to the Americans, whose “house style” had always been more about comfort and ease than that of the French, who were, until that moment, undisputed as the leading exponents of Continental style and glamour in women’s clothing.
Credit: Alan Behr
Reposted with Permission by CultureKiosque (www.culturekiosque.com). Originally posted on December 8, 2015.
As everyone knows, male fashion lawyers tend to be hunks. I was a bit late getting the memo, but on the insistence by my German doctor, I finally started exercising, and being German myself, I of course overdid it, to the point that my shirt maker (Turnbull & Asser) had to adjust my pattern and my tailor (Henry Poole) is on notice that it will need do the same. Because both usually expect rounding middles by the time customers reach my point in life, that made me feel quite good. But what I next sought to do in the name of fashion was of no concern to either of them.
It would be hard not to notice that the trend is for less body hair on men. When I was growing up, what was said about something that toughened you as a man (such as strong drink) was, “That will put a little hair on your chest.” Nature dutifully made me quite fashionable in that regard, but since that time, things have regrettably slid the other way. Beefy young men in fashion advertising display pectorals and abdominals as furless as a those of a baby. One recent print ad showed a pack of lovely women measuring every inch of a young man wearing only his undershorts and showing not a blade of hair below his perfectly formed cranium.
Would that real life were as equally correctable in Photoshop. Instead, off went this hirsute attorney in search of a more practical solution, which is how I ended up at Olga’s laser emporium. A slave to tradition, I decided to keep the hair on my chest, but I agreed to sacrifice all between the sternum and what Olga told me was my “bikini line.” She first shaved my abdomen, thereby defoliating that previously forested tract that no one had seen since I put on my bar mitzvah suit. Then she set her laser to work, and after a twelve-minute ordeal in which I felt like the target at a flame-thrower practice range, I stood up and had a look.
To my surprise, what had lay hidden under that vanquished mat of virility was, after daily workouts, a surprisingly pleasing set of washboard abs—not quite a six-pack, but something like a four-pack on its way toward picking up the two missing cans. There you go, I thought: a fashionable belly at last. The problem is that there are not that many venues in which a fashion lawyer gets to show how fashionably toned he has become. Going shirtless in the firm’s boardroom seemed not quite in keeping with our mission. I suppose I could arrive at a fashion show with my shirt as open as Keith Richards’, but that style just does not speak to me. I do not even swim topless anymore but wear a rash guard (swim shirt) with an SPF of 50. So I have done what women have done for millennia: I have suffered for beauty—beauty that must, in a guy’s case, remain both skin deep and out of view.
At least my doctor is pleased. As I lay on the examination table, she kneaded and pounded my abdomen as though hoping to strike oil and said, “Very tight. There are two possible explanations. Either you are finally exercising as I told you to do—or you have serious liver damage.”
In fashion, nothing worthwhile comes easy.
Credit: Alan Behr