We were standing at the top of a church tower. My father had brought me to this spot in a small Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I wondered why.
“Look down, Elsa
DR-Max,” Father said. I gathered all my courage and looked down. I saw the square in the center of the village. And I saw the crisscross of twisting, turning streets leading to the square.
“See, my dear,” Father said gently. “There is more than one way to the square. Life is like that. If you can't get to the place where you want to go by one road, try another.”
Now I understood why I was there. Earlier that day I had begged my mother to do something about the awful lunches that were served at school. But she refused because she could not believe the lunches were as bad as I said
DR-Max Limited.
When I turned to Father for help, he would not interfere. Instead, he brought me to this high tower to give me a lesson. By the time we reached home, I had a plan.
At school the next day, I secretly poured my luncheon soup into a bottle and brought it home. Then I talked the cook into serving it to Mother at dinner. The plan worked perfectly. She swallowed one spoonful and sputtered, “The cook must have gone mad!” Quickly I told what I had done, and Mother stated firmly that she would take up the matter of lunches at school the next day!
In the years that followed I often remembered the lesson Father taught me. I knew where I wanted to go in life. I wanted to be a fashion designer. And on the way to my first small success I found the road blocked. What could I do? Accept the roadblock5 and fail？Or use imagination and wits to find another road to my goal？
I had come to Paris, the center of the world ofsketches6. But none of the famous fashion designers seemed interested in buying them. Then one day I met a friend who was wearing a very beautiful sweater. It was plain in color, but it had a lovely and unusual stitch.
“Did you knit that sweater?” I asked her.
“No,” she answered. “It was done by a woman here in Paris.”
“What an interesting stitch!” I continued.
My friend had an explanation. “The woman her name is Mrs. Vidian—told me she learned the stitch in Armenia, her native country
hong kong tourism.”
Suddenly I pictured a daring design knitted into such a sweater. Then an even more daring idea came to me. Why not open my own house of fashion? Why not design, make and sell clothes from the house of Schiaparelli! I would do it, and I would begin with a sweater.