Welcome to The Fresh Follies

By Martha Duffy

There is something new in the lingerie departments of the nation's clothing stores these days: racks and racks of short, stiff crinolines flaring out into the aisles. By spring they will be bobbing along the streets, impeding entry into buses and buildings and providing the most radical change in silhouette since the mini and the maxi. Does a woman in the '80s really want to look like a Frisbee? Does she care to be the focus of frank stares every time she sits down? Where on earth, in this era of female liberation and utilitarian dress, did these saucy, sexy, impractical throwbacks come from?

Some observers credit British Designer Vivienne Westwood, who introduced short hoop skirts and "minicrinis" in 1985 as part of a collection that was never even produced. But let the history books show that since 1981 Christian Lacroix, couturier at the House of Jean Patou, has been experimenting with petticoats and showing a few puffy skirts each season.

Now, at 35, Lacroix is the new superstar of fashion, the darling of last week's Paris couture shows, extolled by the press and praised by competitors. Karl Lagerfeld of Chanel calls him a "breath of fresh air." Giorgio Armani, whose severe, classic designs are the antithesis of Lacroix's, wishes him luck. "Welcome," he enthuses, "to Lacroix with his fresh follies."

Armani has it right. Clothing has been sober and serious in recent years. The dominant figure of the late 1970s was not a Frenchman but the brilliant tailor Armani. In the early '80s the Japanese brought artistry to clothing, but very few chuckles. Lagerfeld cheered things up a bit, but Lacroix has thrown all caution -- some would add taste -- to the winds and opted for outright hilarity.

Fantasy, a sacred word in the fashion lexicon, scarcely covered last week's parade of giddy gambits. Some of the dresses looked conventional in front, only to reveal a naughty minicrini at the derriere, highlighted perhaps by flowers or a bow that would do credit to Fergie herself. There were several variations on the bustle, insouciant and not very subtle. One bouffant day costume featured layers of huge polka dots overlapping like the tiles on a roof. And the hats! Florid Creole cones, luscious layers of peonies topped by an upended straw boater. Befruited skimmers and lacy lampshades. Carmen Miranda would have loved it. So would Elsa Schiaparelli, the imp of '30s couture.

Not everything was extreme, of course. A long scarlet dress opens to reveal a white lace swimsuit. Playing games with proportion has often been done by designers. There were also lyrical bare-midriff gowns and little silk frocks that will be widely copied. One elegant fantasy had a delicate jeweled top and what looked to be an ordinary eyelet skirt, until one realized that the eyelet was sumptuous taffeta instead of the familiar cotton. Even the most flagrant creation can be tamed by omitting the hat or discarding a pound or so of accessories.

But these are not garments for real life. Couture means made-to-order apparel, requiring several fittings and carrying astronomical price tags. Dresses for daytime run about $2,500 and for evening can cost as much as $33,500. Couture must have an extreme element. Or, as Lacroix puts it, "I am very sure that haute couture should be fun, foolish, almost unwearable. We are like a beautiful Christmas window in a store. We have to make dreams."

Lacroix discovered his vocation rummaging through his grandmother's attic in Arles, where he lost himself amid stacks of fashion magazines dating back to the 19th century. One day at Sunday lunch Lacroix was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. Said he: "Christian Dior." He attended the University of Montpellier, studying classics and art history, and then went to Paris to train as a museum curator at the Ecole du Louvre. Then, in 1973, he attended a party largely because he had been told the food would be good. There he met his wife Francoise Rosenthiel, who now runs boutiques at the Paris Opera and at the new costume wing at the Louvre. "She walked in, we saw each other and crash! Ever since, we have never been apart."

A 1978 trip to New York City and the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute caused Lacroix to change careers. "It really reawakened my passion for clothes," says Lacroix. Showing some sketches around in Paris, he found work easily, first at Hermes, then at Guy Paulin. In 1981 the call came from Patou, where control of the firm had just passed to Jean de Mouy, grandnephew of the original designer and the third generation of his family to run the business. De Mouy was all of 29 and determined "to see that, three generations after me, it is still a family house." His plan: install a designer who would restore the house to the pinnacle of fashion. Karl Lagerfeld and Marc Bohan of Dior both spent apprenticeships there, but these young talents eventually moved on. Patou was too conservative then, devoting most of its energy to its lucrative perfumes, especially Joy.

De Mouy was impressed at once by Lacroix, because of his "complete knowledge of the past, not only in fashion but in art and architecture." Lacroix's charter was to design two collections a year, according to his impulse and vision. No strings were attached, least of all purse strings. His first sketches to the millinery atelier caused shock and consternation. "Sometimes it is necessary to disturb people in order to push forward," he observes. Since he refines his ideas slowly and deliberately, most of today's headliners have antecedents in earlier collections.

He is not the only one pushing pouf this year. Ungaro, Cardin and Lagerfeld, among others, showed versions of the bubble. (Saint Laurent, who was blowing fashionable bubbles when Lacroix was in his grandmother's attic, showed an exquisite but conventional collection.) But not only did Lacroix pioneer the new silhouette, he is ineffably its presiding spirit.

The gleefully exaggerated costumes are not the only stars of a Lacroix extravaganza. Take the music. Not for him the standard melange of rock and wailing chanteuses. At last week's show the models moved to an eclectic assortment of tunes suggested by the show's escapist, vaguely Caribbean theme. The selections ranged from a thrilling recording of zarzuela by Teresa Berganza to a down-home rendition of the old round "Down by the station, Early in the morning/ See the little puffer bellies, All in a row." The room went wild.

There is something intimate about a Lacroix presentation, a revelation of taste and spirit that goes beyond the usual limits of professionalism. In fact, compared with Saint Laurent's aesthetic poise or Lagerfeld's streamlined efficiency, Lacroix's enthusiasm looks not quite grown-up, as if he were engaged in a kind of dress-up game. "I do play at being a couturier," he ! acknowledges with a sigh.

Life will get more serious, and soon. After last week's triumph, Lacroix received substantial offers of backing for his own house, and the temptation to have one's personal logo -- Saint Laurent's initials or Chanel's stark block letters -- is very strong. He will be moving before long into the ready- to-wear field. That means that Lacroix must design two additional collections a year and execute them with restrictions on fabric and detail in order to produce reasonably priced clothes. But the master of folly is not fazed. "I believe it can be done," he says. "Ready-to-wear can have all the fun of haute couture, clothes that are very easy to wear, but with a little something . . ." and he snaps his fingers.

With reporting by B.J. Phillips/Paris