Nobody's Looking at You
Three weeks before the International Fashion Boutique Show in the spring of 1984, Eileen Fisher had no clothes. She had no patterns, no sketches, no factory, no seamstress on retainer, no formal training in fashion design, and — by her own account — no ability to draw. What she had was $350, a borrowed booth at a trade show in New York, a woman named Gail who could sew, and an image in her mind so precise and persistent that it had survived five years of dormancy since a trip to Japan: simple shapes, natural fibers, garments that worked together like a system, like a uniform, like the kimono she'd seen worn a thousand different ways across a thousand years of unbroken tradition.
She found existing garments in stores — things that approximated what she could see but couldn't render — and brought them to Gail. "It's kind of like this," she said, "but the neck is more like that, and it's a little longer, or it's a little shorter." Gail was unimpressed. "You have to have an idea, Eileen. This is a little boring. Put some piping on it or something." Fisher's therapist was equally skeptical, worried that this divergence from interior design constituted self-sabotage. Her mother, from whom Fisher had inherited both a talent for silence and a Catholic conviction that invisibility was safety, had already rendered her verdict years earlier: Nobody's looking at you.
Four garments emerged from this unpromising genesis — a box-top, a cropped pant, a shell, and a vest, all in linen — and Fisher hung them in the booth and stood there, terrified, waiting. Several buyers liked them. They wrote orders. At the next show, buyers stood in line. The orders totaled $40,000. She and Gail cut fabric and carried the pieces in garbage bags on the subway to a small factory in Queens.
This is how a $300-million company begins: not with a manifesto but with a murmur, not with disruption but with subtraction. A shy woman from Des Plaines, Illinois — "Home of McDonald's, Anywhere, U.S.A.," as she once described it — who could not explain her ideas to clients, who had been told by nuns and by her own mother that speaking was dangerous, who had been trained by a childhood of benign neglect among six siblings to lead from behind, produced four pieces of unadorned linen clothing and thereby inaugurated what would become one of the most quietly radical experiments in American fashion and American business. Forty years later, the pieces have multiplied and the fabrics have diversified, but the founding gesture — the removal of the unnecessary, the discovery of what lies beneath all the fuss — remains the company's animating principle. Fisher calls it "undesigning." It is harder than it sounds.
By the Numbers
The Eileen Fisher Company
$350Startup capital in 1984
~$300MApproximate annual revenue (2024)
~60Retail stores across the U.S., Canada, and U.K.
1,200+Employees
40%Employee ownership via ESOP (est. 2006)
2M+Garments collected through Renew take-back program
4xB Corp certifications since 2015
The Architecture of Discomfort
To understand the clothes, you have to understand the discomfort that produced them. Fisher has said, with a frankness that borders on confession, that she designed comfortable clothes because she is such an uncomfortable person. The statement sounds like false modesty — the kind of thing a billionaire says to seem relatable — but the biographical evidence suggests otherwise, suggests instead a woman for whom the making of simple garments was an act of existential problem-solving, a way to reduce the friction between herself and the world to something bearable.
She was born in 1950 in Des Plaines, Illinois, the second oldest of seven children — six girls and one boy. Her father was an accountant at Allstate Insurance, quiet and disengaged. Her mother put food on the table, cleaned the house, and yelled. "She never told us what to do," Fisher recalled. "She yelled at us more than anything, but didn't teach us things and didn't really take charge." The children raised themselves. It was — and Fisher acknowledged this explicitly — a family without parents. The model would later replicate itself in her company's famously nonhierarchical structure, though it took decades and at least one failed C.E.O. hire before anyone recognized the pattern.
Catholic school compounded the domestic silence with institutional intimidation. "I was fairly traumatized by the Catholic schools I went to," she told Janet Malcolm in 2013. "I think it is part of my silence thing, of just always feeling it is safer to say nothing than to figure out what you think and what you want to say. It was always risky to speak at school." There was criticism, yelling, humiliation. But there was also the uniform — twelve years of it — and the uniform, perversely, became a source of liberation. You could just throw that thing on every morning and not have to think about it. The ease of erasure. The comfort of not having to choose.
She went to the University of Illinois intending to major in math — her best subject, inherited perhaps from her accountant father — and promptly got a D in Intermediate Calculus. A college roommate studied interior design, and Fisher found herself drifting into the roommate's world of colors and fabrics and spatial composition. She switched her major to interior design, housed then within the Home Economics department. It was, she would later say, the first time she stumbled into something she loved, though even this discovery was accidental, a swerve rather than a decision. Much of her life would follow this pattern: not the heroic charge of the entrepreneur but the quiet drift of a person attuned to signals most people miss.
A Japanese Education
After graduating, Fisher moved to New York to become an interior designer and failed at it. "I wasn't good with words," she said. "I wasn't that good with people, either. I couldn't explain my ideas to clients." She waited tables. She took small graphic-design jobs. One day, at a printing shop, a Japanese man looked at her stationery design and liked it. His name was Rei. He was a graphic designer. He hired her as an assistant, and they began a relationship, and she moved in with him — "that was kind of a mistake" — and they went to Japan together to work on advertising projects for clients like Kirin beer.
In Japan, something shifted. The commercial work required them to present many ideas, and Rei had Fisher "throw in" her designs alongside his. Then weird things would happen: the clients would pick her design. "He would get upset. I think he thought I was this little assistant, I was nice and cute or whatever I was. When they picked my design, it created a problem in our relationship." The relationship did not survive the problem of her talent.
But the lesson of Japan survived everything. "I got inspired. I saw the kimono. I saw it worn different ways. I saw all those little cotton kimonos and those kimono things they wear in the rice paddies and tie back and little flood pants. I was intrigued by the aesthetic of Japan. The simplicity of it." Here was an entire civilization that had decided a single garment shape was sufficient — had worn the kimono for over a thousand years — and this fact struck Fisher with the force of revelation. It confirmed something she had felt but could not articulate: that timelessness was possible, that simplicity was not the absence of design but its highest expression, and that the best clothing should work like architecture — structural, enduring, indifferent to the season's noise.
She stored the idea. For five years, it gestated while she tried to make a living doing apartments, stationery, small things. She designed a tofu package. "But this idea kept haunting me, this clothing thing, the kimono."
Garbage Bags on the Subway
The catalyst, when it came, was characteristically indirect. Fisher was living in Tribeca, surrounded by artists and designers — the downtown New York of the late seventies and early eighties that subsequent generations have spent decades romanticizing. She was dating a sculptor who made jewelry and had taken a booth at the International Fashion Boutique Show, where owners of small stores from around the country came to buy from small designers. He took her to the show. "I remember looking around and going, 'I could do this,'" Fisher said. "I had never designed any clothes, but I could picture it, I could see clothes I had designed on the walls."
This is the sentence that contains the entire company. Not I had a business plan. Not I identified a market opportunity. But I could picture it. The vision preceded the ability, the product, the infrastructure, the capital. It preceded everything. Fisher has described herself as a visual thinker who struggled with words, and the founding of the company was an act of visual thinking — she saw the clothes before they existed, the way an architect sees a building before the ground is broken, and then spent the next forty years trying to make reality match the image.
The sculptor stopped making jewelry but had committed to the booth. At the next show, Fisher took it over, sharing the space with two other designers because she couldn't afford the rent. Three weeks out, she had nothing. She hired Gail, found approximating garments in stores, talked her way to four linen pieces. The first show yielded eight tiny orders. She reinvested every dollar. She told everyone about her idea, offered friends wholesale prices if they paid upfront. She asked for help constantly.
An investor offered $25,000. She passed. It didn't feel right. She wanted organic growth — a phrase she used decades before it became a Silicon Valley cliché — and the instinct to refuse outside money would prove to be one of the most consequential decisions of her career. It meant slower growth. It meant retaining control. It meant that when the question of selling the company arose fifteen or twenty years later, she was positioned to make an entirely different kind of choice.
I think it was foolish non-fear. I really had nothing and so I had nothing to lose. It was coming through me, this idea. It was clear to me. I was sort of uncomfortable and not a confident person, but a shy, introverted person. But this idea was powerful and I was confident about it and I was sure about it.
The Watershed on Madison Avenue
The company incorporated in 1986 with four employees on East 10th Street. By 1987, it had seven employees, a headquarters on 39th Street, and a boutique on 9th Street in the East Village — the first Eileen Fisher shop. The clothes were loose and long and interesting. There was an atmosphere of early modernism in their geometric shapes and murky muted colors. "You could see Alma Mahler wearing them around the Bauhaus," Janet Malcolm would later write, and the comparison — high culture, Central European, architectural — captured something true about the aesthetic, even if Fisher herself would have been too diffident to claim it.
In 1988, Fisher married David Zwiebel, who owned two dress shops in upstate New York and was among the early buyers of her designs. Zwiebel — a retail mind where Fisher was a design mind — joined the company and pushed for what Fisher credits as a "watershed moment": the opening of an Eileen Fisher shop on Madison Avenue at 54th Street. Before the Madison Avenue store, department stores had hesitated. After it, they saw the point. Saks Fifth Avenue became the first major retailer to carry the line in 1992. Department stores would eventually represent seventy percent of the company's business.
The company moved its headquarters from West 39th Street to Irvington, New York, in 1992, because Fisher wanted her son Zack to have a backyard. This is the kind of decision that appears in business case studies as an eccentricity but in Fisher's life reads as the governing logic: personal need, domestic scale, the refusal to subordinate life to enterprise. She had two children — Zack and Sasha — and the Irvington house, overlooking the Hudson River through magnificent picture windows, became both home and office, the place where she would receive journalists and hold meetings and try on samples from racks of gray and black and white in what she called her studio.
Profit-sharing was added as a company benefit in 1992. By 1994, there were 1,400 wholesale accounts and 130 employees. By 1999, more than 1.6 million units were shipping annually. The growth was steady, organic, and — in the fashion industry's frantic context — almost perversely unhurried.
A Family Without Parents
Then the marriage ended, and everything got complicated. "That was a hard time," Fisher said. "Everything was mixed up. It sort of reminded me of that situation with the Japanese boyfriend. Why do we repeat the same things?" Zwiebel left the company. Fisher spent less time at the office to be with her children. When she returned full-time a few years later, she no longer felt at home in her own creation. The company had become more corporate, more hierarchical, less collaborative, less caring. People weren't kind enough to each other. Deadlines were more important than the process that led to the deadlines.
A male C.E.O. was hired during this period of drift — the conventional solution to the conventional problem of a founder-led company outgrowing its founder. "It was clear after a few months that this was the wrong path," Fisher recalled. "He was a lovely guy. He would have been the right C.E.O. for our company if a C.E.O. was the right role for our company. But it was the old paradigm of somebody directing the action." People asked Fisher: "Do we have to listen to him when he tells us what to do?"
The answer, it turned out, was no. The C.E.O. left. And a few years later, in 1999, as if summoned by the company's collective unconscious, Susan Schor arrived.
Schor was a handsome, vivacious, articulate woman of sixty-seven — a professor at the Pace University business school who taught courses in leadership skills and interpersonal skills. She and Fisher met at a birthday party and felt an immediate rapport. (Schor was wearing Eileen Fisher clothes.) Fisher confided her worries about the company. Schor visited, observed, and immediately recognized the power vacuum created by Fisher's inability to say a cross word to anyone. "It became clear to me that the company needed someone with my background," Schor said, "though it wasn't going to be me, because I loved being a tenured faculty member at Pace."
She overcame her reluctance. Where the male C.E.O. had tried to direct, Schor facilitated. Where he had imposed hierarchy, she cultivated what the company would come to describe — in language that drove the journalist Janet Malcolm to polite exasperation — as "facilitating leaders" and "core concept teams" and "this kind of concept of facilitating leaders, which is that they're actually doing the work, they're not leading the work, but sort of like the way I've been leading from behind." It was, by all accounts, nearly impossible to explain and remarkably effective. "It was not a happy place when I came," Schor said, "and now it is a pretty happy organization that keeps getting happier and happier."
The organizational structure that emerged — meetings conducted in circles, a minute of silence before every gathering, bronze bells rung to mark beginnings and endings, a "talking stick" so everyone could be heard — read from the outside like corporate mysticism. But it was also, and this is the part that doesn't fit neatly into any narrative, wildly successful. The company that couldn't quite explain what it was doing was generating hundreds of millions in revenue, appearing on the Great Place to Work list nine years running, and producing clothes that inspired what Malcolm called "a cult of the interestingly plain."
The ESOP and the Road Not Taken
Fifteen or twenty years ago, Fisher got acquisition inquiries all the time. She entertained a few. People encouraged her to diversify her assets. Most of her resources were in the company. "I wondered, Wow, is it crazy not to sell part of the company? That's what everyone else does."
What everyone else does. The phrase echoes through the story of Eileen Fisher like a negative commandment. She built a fashion company without runway shows, without logo branding, without supermodels, without a Creative Director's cult of personality, without venture capital, without going public, without a conglomerate parent. Each refusal was a kind of design decision — the subtraction of the expected, the discovery of what remained.
In 2006, instead of selling to a larger company or pursuing an IPO, Fisher sold forty percent of the company to its employees through an Employee Stock Ownership Plan. The company borrowed money to buy Fisher out of that stake, then gave the shares to employees. It was, in the context of the fashion industry, nearly unprecedented. "I'm really proud of it," Fisher said, "and I also think that it should be part of our new era of capitalism. I think that companies should have to share profits, or share ownership with employees. It should be a law."
The ESOP reinforced the culture of shared responsibility that had been developing since the company's earliest days of profit-sharing. Turnover remained remarkably low for years. Salespeople — who do not work on commission — received five free garments a month. In 2012, an exceptionally profitable year, every employee received the equivalent of an extra eleven weeks of salary. The company became, in 2015, the largest women's fashion organization to be certified a B Corporation, meeting high standards for social and environmental performance. In 2016, it became the largest B Corp in New York State.
I think that companies should have to share profits, or share ownership with employees. It should be a law.
The Conscience Before the Buzzword
In the mid-1990s, decades before "sustainability" became an inescapable marketing term and "corporate social responsibility" became a required section of annual reports, Fisher hired a head of social consciousness. The title alone was a kind of provocation — or would have been, if anyone outside the company had been paying attention. They weren't. In the fashion industry of the 1990s, nobody was talking about supply chain ethics or regenerative agriculture or circular production systems. Fisher was.
The impulse, like so much about her, was intuitive rather than strategic. "Evolution," she explained when asked whether there had been a specific catalyzing moment. "You sort of do something and it points you to more." She visited factories in China. The water crisis hit her. She started to understand the garment industry's contribution to environmental degradation — the pesticides in conventional cotton, the toxic dyes in silk production, the carbon footprint of shipping, the sheer tonnage of textile waste.
The timeline of the company's environmental and social commitments reads like a history of the sustainability movement itself, except that Fisher was there first, or nearly first, at almost every turn:
🌿
A Timeline of Conscience
Eileen Fisher's environmental and social milestones
1996First "eco" collection of undyed wool released
1997Human Rights program launched; company joins Social Accountability International
1999Living Wage Proclamation signed
2004First organic cotton garment produced
2006ESOP established; 40% of company transferred to employees
2009"Green Eileen" take-back program launched — one of the first by a major fashion brand
2012Responsible dyeing of silk pioneered in partnership with bluesign®
2013
"We think about our materials from the seeds, from the very beginning, all the way through to taking our clothes back from our customers," Fisher said at a 2019 talk at Parsons School of Design. "We have this idea that we can, without making more clothes, double the size of our business." The ambition was either delusional or visionary, and the distance between the two is often shorter than it appears.
The Renew program — launched in 2009, years before "resale" and "upcycling" entered common parlance — collects used Eileen Fisher garments from customers, offering a $5 gift certificate per item. Garments in good condition are cleaned and resold. Damaged garments are felted and transformed into wall hangings, pillows, and accessories through the Waste No More program. More than two million garments have been collected. The program functions as both a sustainability initiative and a quality control feedback loop: "We learn things about the design, and what is actually recyclable and what breaks down, where the problems are," Fisher said. "One thing moves you to the next."
The Cult of the Interestingly Plain
A digression about the clothes themselves, which have been hailed (or dismissed) as: simple, tasteful, dignified, anonymous, elegant, comfortable, matronly, refined, smart. The customers who buy them form what Malcolm called "a cult of the interestingly plain" — professors, editors, psychotherapists, lawyers, administrators — women of a certain age and class for whom the hiding of vanity is an inner necessity. The clothes fulfill a wish shared by serious women everywhere: that what they wear looks as if it were heedlessly flung on rather than anxiously selected.
Fisher's design innovation, stripped of mystique, was to take an idea percolating in luxury circles — the minimalist capsule wardrobe, popularized by Japanese designers and
Donna Karan's Seven Easy Pieces — and make it accessible to a broader audience. The pieces work as a "system," each shape compatible with every other, so that a customer can build a wardrobe the way one furnishes a room: for longevity, for coherence, for the reduction of daily friction. The clothes are priced in the luxury category — alongside
Ralph Lauren and DKNY — but they are engineered for repetition, not spectacle.
What is remarkable about Fisher's aesthetic longevity is that she stopped designing twenty years before Malcolm profiled her in 2013. "I've been leading from behind," she told Malcolm, a phrase that doubles as both design philosophy and management style. She turned the work over to a design team, first under her supervision, then under that of a lead designer. Her role became curatorial — touching a sleeve, taking fabric between her fingers, asking: Is this really timeless? Would it be better like that? She described her approach as "undesigning" — "finding the simplest version of a garment that lies underneath all the fuss."
The word "undesigning" deserves a moment's attention. It is not a negation but a direction: toward the essential, the underlying, the already-there. It implies that the perfect garment exists prior to the designer's intervention, hidden beneath accumulated trends, and that the designer's job is archaeological rather than creative — to remove rather than add. Fisher compared it to Bauhaus principles, then immediately deflated the comparison: "Of course, that sounds grand, and I don't mean that." She always means it less than she says, and the things she means most she barely says at all.
The Malcolm Affair
In 2013, Janet Malcolm — the legendarily precise and ruthless journalist, author of
The Journalist and the Murderer and countless New Yorker profiles — came to Irvington to write about Eileen Fisher. The resulting piece, published in the September 23 issue, was titled "Nobody's Looking at You." Malcolm later used the title for a book collection:
Nobody's Looking at You: Essays.
The profile was Malcolm at her most observational — the house on the Hudson, the Japanese cook, the lunch of crab cakes and winter squash, the two PR handlers who accompanied Fisher everywhere "like handmaidens," the meetings conducted in circles with bronze bells, the coded organizational language that Malcolm found nearly impenetrable. And the cat. There was an outdoor cat — expelled from the house for fighting with the other male cat and peeing on the floor — who stood on his hind legs outside the French doors, paws pressed against the glass, begging not to come in but to be fed. "He goes under the house. He's fine," Fisher said. "The vet said he's the healthiest of my cats."
Malcolm, characteristically, made the cat do more work than any cat should have to do in a magazine profile. It became the piece's recurring image — the creature banished from warmth yet thriving in exile, an emblem of something about Fisher herself, or about the company, or about the relationship between comfort and exclusion that neither woman quite articulated.
Fisher was wounded by the profile. Years later, speaking to a New Yorker interviewer, she said: "Something was tough about it. I saw myself as not communicating clearly. I saw the kind of circular way I told my story in the several days that I met with her. I felt sad, like I hadn't gotten across who I was somehow. Or maybe she didn't get me, or maybe I wasn't being clear."
This admission — from a woman who had built a billion-dollar aesthetic on the principle that the simplest expression is the truest one — is quietly devastating. Fisher had spent decades perfecting the art of subtraction in clothing, only to discover that in language, subtraction looks like evasion. The same quality that made her a great designer — the refusal of the obvious, the instinct to remove rather than add, the preference for silence over assertion — made her nearly impossible to profile. She led from behind, and the journalist saw only the behind.
"I've worked so hard to find my voice," Fisher said. "It's painful. To be clear about who I am and what I'm trying to do and what I think matters."
The Handover
In September 2022, Fisher announced what many interpreted as her retirement. She was seventy-two. She would bring in a C.E.O. for the first time in the company's history — the real first time, if we discount the brief and disastrous experiment with the male executive years earlier. The search took about a year, conducted with the same deliberation Fisher brought to everything.
The woman she hired was Lisa Williams, who came from Patagonia, the outdoor clothing company founded by
Yvon Chouinard — a company that shares so much DNA with Eileen Fisher that the appointment felt less like a recruitment and more like a family reunion. Williams had spent years at Patagonia witnessing what was possible when a purpose-driven company operated at scale — roughly $1.5 billion in annual sales, proof that values and commercial viability were not mutually exclusive.
"When I met Lisa, I felt that we were on the same page," Fisher said. "Concern around overproduction and consumption. What does it mean, and how do you build a company that works and that is sustainable into the future? I also felt like she was a listener. That's something I value so much."
Williams, for her part, saw the appointment as a chance to bring the brand to a new generation. Eileen Fisher's core customer remained the middle-aged or older woman — the professor, the editor, the psychotherapist. Sales had peaked near $500 million in the mid-2010s and dropped to around $241 million in the year before Williams arrived, battered by the pandemic and a prolonged marketing hiatus. But something had changed in the culture. Minimalism, quiet luxury, capsule wardrobes, slow fashion, sustainability — every trend that mattered in the 2020s was something Fisher had been practicing for decades. The brand's aesthetic, once dismissed as matronly, was suddenly prescient.
"Eileen Fisher has the right product and the right message at a time when it makes sense," Williams told Fortune in November 2024. "Now, we're trying to make sure that we've got the right visibility." The brand began experimenting with influencers, TikTok creators filming capsule wardrobe videos, a diverse set of Instagram models — all the marketing basics it had never needed before, or had been too principled, or too shy, to pursue.
Everybody is wanting to model this "responsible business" thing. And in a lot of ways, we're all grading our own papers. There aren't a whole lot of standards and definitions and methodology out there.
The Ghost of Kate Spade
In her 2022 New Yorker interview, Fisher raised an unexpected specter. "I think about Kate Spade sometimes," she said. "How hard that must have been for her, to sell the company and to see it go somewhere so far from where she originally conceptualized it. And yet it had her name on it. There's something very personal about those kinds of things. I knew her, but I don't know her whole story. If I think about it, it makes me sad. So then I think, What does that mean for me? How do I want to preserve [Eileen Fisher] as I leave?"
Kate Spade — born Katherine Noel Brosnahan in Kansas City in 1962, a former accessories editor at Mademoiselle who founded her handbag company in 1993, sold it to Neiman Marcus Group in 1999 and then to Liz Claiborne (later Tapestry) in 2007, watched it mutate into something she no longer recognized, and died by suicide in June 2018. The invocation was not casual. It was a warning, a prayer, a design specification for the handover: Don't let this happen to me.
Fisher had tried hard to not have the company bear her name. "It got away from me. Because it was early days, and I couldn't come up with another name, and it was too late, and I just had to do it." Now the name was iconic — bigger than her, she hoped. But iconic names are also vulnerable names. They can be hollowed out, filled with someone else's vision, made to mean the opposite of what they once meant.
Her solution was characteristically oblique: not a legal structure or a succession plan in the conventional sense, but a pedagogy. She would teach young designers in the company to carry on the practice of undesigning. She would create the blueprint — the design philosophy, set down in transferable principles, so that the work would survive the worker. She compared it to Bauhaus, then took the comparison back. She talked about starting a design school. She was, at seventy-two, still figuring out her voice.
Breathe, Relax, Feel
Fisher's daily routine, described in a 2017 interview with The Cut, reads like a monastic schedule adapted for a fashion executive. She wakes at 6:30 or 7 — setting three fifteen-minute alarms she frequently ignores — and begins with ten minutes of meditation and ten minutes of yoga. Then lemon juice, water, coffee. Then she sits in what she calls "my purpose chair" and journals, organizing herself around what she thinks matters for the day. She rarely starts work before 9:30 or 10. At day's end, she does a little more yoga — ten minutes — to reconnect before dinner. She plays mahjong. She makes puzzles with her daughter. She aims for bed at eleven.
The meditation practice began about twenty-five years ago, when she started doing hatha yoga at Kripalu and then went to the Chopra Center. "That's when I started meditating every day and really leaned into a regular practice. I'd get up every morning and meditate for a half hour before I would do anything." The yoga and meditation fed each other: "It's amazing, it changed my life. I can wake up totally stressed, but I know that, once I start doing the yoga, I'm good."
When she is especially stressed, she repeats a three-word mantra: Breathe, relax, feel. It is, if you think about it, a design philosophy compressed into respiratory instruction. Breathe: slow down. Relax: subtract the tension. Feel: attend to what's actually there, beneath the fuss. It is undesigning applied to the nervous system.
Fisher left the Catholic Church during college and now attends weekly meetings of the Westchester Buddhist Center, held at her offices in Irvington. She has been in therapy for more than thirty years. "Without the therapist I had many years ago, there's no way I could have started this business," she said. "She didn't say, 'Don't do that,' like my mother did. 'What are you thinking — you can't even sew.' But she questioned. 'What is motivating you? What is it about?' She saved my life."
The Healthiest Cat
In the weeks between Janet Malcolm's visits to Irvington in 2013, there had been a spell of exceptionally icy, windy weather. Malcolm thought of the cat miserably huddled under the house. Had Fisher relented and let him in?
No. "He has been outside for three years now. He is the healthiest of my cats," Fisher said, and then told a story: "The first year he was outside was really hard. It was painful. Every time it would snow or rain I would feel terrible. One freezing-cold day, I thought, Oh, my poor cat, and picked him up. I was going to hug him a little and warm him up — but he was so warm, I couldn't believe it. On another freezing day, I let him into a stone entryway. I thought I would just let him be there, and he kind of walked around a bit and then he stood by the door so that I would let him back out."
The cat stood by the door so that she would let him back out. Into the cold. Where he was warm. Where he was, by every veterinary metric, thriving.
There is a version of this parable that applies to the company — the organism that flourishes precisely because it was expelled from the comfortable enclosure of conventional business practice, that found its warmth in the cold of doing things differently. And there is a version that applies to Fisher herself — the shy, silent, uncomfortable woman who built an empire from discomfort, who found her voice by refusing to speak in anyone else's register, who undesigned her way to something that looks, from the outside, like effortlessness.
At the reopening of the Irvington Lab Store in 2013, after Hurricane Sandy had flooded it, Fisher stood at the door in black harem pants, boots, a charcoal-gray cardigan over a gray asymmetrical top, and a light-gray scarf. She knows how to wear scarves the way women in Paris know how to wear them and American women almost touchingly don't. An eighty-five-year-old woman with a cane approached — wearing Eileen Fisher clothes from another era, which suited her well — to say how much she loved the designs. On the tenth floor of 111 Fifth Avenue, Monica Rowe paused before a short rack of garments with a sign: EILEEN'S SAMPLES / DO NOT TOUCH. These were the clothes for Mom's closet, in the obligatory black and gray and white, and as they stood before them, the image of Eileen — in all her delicacy and beauty — wafted out of them like an old, expensive scent.
