Fashion: A little black dress from Munich

The so-called little black dress is a fashion icon and should be viewed with appropriate seriousness, even if the name suggests casualness. The dress, usually knee-length, simple and unconditionally elegant, is associated with famous names. Coco Chanel is considered its inventor, Audrey Hepburn wore it with a cigarette holder in "Breakfast at Tiffany's", Kate Moss sometimes with bobbing marabou feathers, sometimes with a leather jacket. Anyone who wants to add something new to this classic, which for around a century has been an unmistakable symbol of style and impeccable taste (or the lack of both), needs self-confidence. And in this case that starts with the address: a villa on the leafy outskirts of Munich , with a varnished fence and rustling old trees. Detlev Diehm has his studio on the first floor. He is actually a men's tailor, but this only seems to contradict the often-called " the dress", the ultimate dress.

Diehm walks through the garden in an inky-blue tailored suit and loafers; his very contemporary version of the "petite robe noire" is ready upstairs. In French, it sounds even more lighthearted; Parisian fashion historians rave about the dress as a symbol of "eternal femininity," of "sublime sex appeal." His reinvention from Obermenzing is unadorned, minimalist, almost austere, and as far removed from Audrey Hepburn as a cool Scandinavian sideboard is from a coquettish dressing table. At first glance: a square of knit, finely woven, dark, and about as short as a mid-length miniskirt. Three perfectly straight cutouts for the head and arms, dropped shoulders—that's it. How it ultimately looks depends on the mood of the wearer: loosely draped or tailored, with a belt, preferable on its own or with a thick necklace. This update is quite far removed from poetic attributes like sublime femininity. Freedom is a better description.

On the glass table in Diehm's shady fitting room, with its deep armchairs and oil paintings, the piece of fabric looks like a carelessly abandoned scarf. "It's the little black dress for our time because it can handle any situation," he says. A quick crumple test, and indeed, hardly any deep creases form. Perhaps few know the properties of textiles as well as a serious men's tailor, because the shapes of jackets, trousers, and waistcoats are not endlessly variable. This makes the art all the more in the precision of the material. Which linen blend for a slim summer suit, how much wool can a jacket with softly rounded shoulders tolerate? Seen in this light, it's not all that surprising that someone like Diehm came up with the idea of ​​​​tackling the little black dress, with its clear coordinates. Medium length, minimal decoration, and above all: it has to fit like a glove.

Fitting these days also means: a good dress must adapt and be as versatile as possible. Occasion wear with fixed rules almost doesn't exist anymore, apart from southern German May festivals, with their uniform dirndls and jackets. But fortunately, apart from royal weddings , hardly any celebration requires a disciplined wardrobe—neither baptisms nor weddings nor festival premieres. For Diehm, therefore, his elegant black dress could only be an all-rounder. "In this, you can go from the outdoor pool to the opera," says the 60-year-old about the lightweight Japanese blend, calling up the photos on the website. To demonstrate its suitability for day and night, the model reveals a bare shoulder (sunbathing lawn) or wears high heels and a clutch with a chain (theater box). The idea isn't very realistic; probably, hardly anyone will stroll from the lido to the theater in the smoky-black dress. But it's all about the look: urban, uncomplicated, yet elegant, thanks to the fine yarn and the (virtually) seamless silhouette.

The free-flowing shape fits well with the origins of the "robe noire," as Coco Chanel, as mentioned, is considered a pioneer of the iconic dress. The theory is not without controversy, as with any ingenious invention; in any case, among her loosely fitting creations from the 1920s was one made of the darkest silk. Chanel famously wanted to free women from corsets without sacrificing fashionable sophistication, which was as revolutionary a concept as the color black for a design that had nothing to do with mourning. In 1926, American Vogue described the idea and the dress as "trendsetting," which then applied to pretty much everything Chanel created as a designer.

The little black dress only became a household name in the 1950s, when its waistline, subtle cut, and cleverly placed highlights through jewelry made it the epitome of class. Since Chanel, Dior, and especially Hubert de Givenchy ("Breakfast at Tiffany's"), the dress has been part of the repertoire of every couture house. The list of famous wearers ranges from Grace Kelly, Marilyn Monroe, and Catherine Deneuve to Princess Diana in her off-the-shoulder "revenge dress" and Kendall Jenner, who personally interprets the word "little" as micro-short, what else. And designers are apparently still attracted to playing with the basic "simple and black" pattern. At her debut for Givenchy in March, Sarah Burton showed transparent ruffled dresses and a full-body fishnet suit. Audrey Hepburn would perhaps wear the catsuit today in the famous opening scene at Tiffany's with sunglasses in the early morning.

Hepburn's grace, even when peeling a croissant from a paper bag, has shaped the image of the little black dress to this day, even though hers was floor-length. But dresses have long since had to answer pragmatic questions, such as whether they are comfortable to wear or whether they allow air to reach the body. For Detlev Diehm, this was even the beginning of his experimental reinterpretation. When he discovered a Japanese yarn in which the typical ultra-fine washi paper is wrapped around a thread made of recycled plastic, he was fascinated by the ingenious manufacturing process and the cool surface of the fabric. He had a few T-shirts made, initially for his own use, and discovered through his own experiment: the Venice Biennale in midsummer, blazing heat, "and I didn't break a sweat once." The special fabric wicks moisture away instead of absorbing it. It also tolerates gentle machine washing and is astonishingly durable—something you might find surprising about cellulose, at least in the West. Such yarns have long been prized and used in Japan. Washi is lighter and softer than conventional paper and is also said to have antibacterial properties.

The idea of ​​developing a simple, black, heat-regulating dress from it was one thing. However, the implementation took time because the thread was initially unsuitable for knitting machines. There were discussions, test runs, and visits to Japan and China, where the Munich dress is now produced using special equipment. As for the travel, it was no problem for Diehm, who, in addition to his fondness for Italy, where he studied, loves Japanese culture and fashion. He chats just as happily and, of course, with great culture, about Pucci or Gianfranco Ferré as he does about Yoji Yamamoto, the household name of fashion purists. This is evident in his pared-down designs, whether a suit or a washi dress. The dress is manufactured in small batches in the Chinese factory and then delivered to Heerstrasse; Andreas Murkudis's Berlin concept store also stocks it.

The special texture of the paper yarn is reminiscent of freshly washed linen before it starts to wrinkle—except it's more durable and supposedly won't sag even after a whole summer afternoon at the lake. From Starnberg, stylishly, directly to Wagner; the upcoming festival season offers interested customers the opportunity to test it. To avoid any unnecessary seams, the dress doesn't have a label. But the small label with the red "D" for "Diehm Bespoke," the name of his company, is enclosed in a small bag. A little bit of authorship should be visible, after all, we're helping to knit a legend here.