To fully immerse yourself in “Italian Style: Fashion Since 1945” (at the MIA through January 4), or if you simply want to dress with a little more pizzazz (that’s Diana Vreeland, not Italian), you’ll need to know the language. Not all of it, but a few key words that unlock the mystery of looking like a million lire. Here are a few you’ll encounter in the show.
Sprezzatura: n. The particularly Italian mode of fashion nonchalance or artful dishevelment. The art of looking like you don’t care. Generally applies only to men, who are given a little more room to operate in Italy. One thing out of place—colors mismatched, blazer collar popped, fun sunglasses, a wild scarf. Not for the faint-hearted, as there’s a fine line between nonchalance and hobo. Start with a loosened tie and try to progress to these guys.
Spezzato: n. Two or more clothing items worn together despite not matching, like a double-breasted jacket from a suit paired with jeans. Spiritually related to sprezzatura. Mix and match, basically, but with a little more attention given to how the looks are playing off each other to create a single exciting look—but of course without seeming studied. When someone inevitably compliments the combo, say, “It’s just something I threw together.” Because that’s how it should come off.
Sartoria: n. A clothing maker’s shop. In Italy, even today, you’ll find small and medium-size shops called Sartoria Vico or Sartoria Rossi. Here’s a shot from Sartoria Vergallo, opened in 1943, in the midst of World War II, by the Vergallo family in a village of tailors.
Sfumatura: n. Gradations of color shifting from one end of a fabric to another, as from pink to orange or red to blue. It derives from an old Italian extraction technique of the same name, using sponges to pull essential oils from citrus peels. In fashion, you progress similarly, ever so gradually, shade by shade, until you’ve arrived at an entire different color at the other end of the dress. It should be subtle and effortless—are you sensing a trend here?
Stilista: n. It’s complicato. A mediator between the fashion business, buyers, the public, the press—a maven, basically, whose incredible sense of style brought couture into the open and helped designer ready-to-wear clothes find an audience beginning in the 1970s.
Palazzo pyjamas: n. Yes, the spelling is a bit precious. The whole look is precious. But you could party in silk pajamas, er, pyjamas and be in good company: Jackie Kennedy was an early adopter when they came out in 1960.
Cinecitta: n. Hollywood on the Tiber. Rome’s “cinema city,” founded by Mussolini in the ’30s. Post-war, it became crowded with top Hollywood productions, as Italy had become a cheap place to film. Roman Holiday, Three Coins in the Fountain, Cleopatra, and a blur of swords-and-sandals epics were shot here with little protest from the stars, who could hang out in restaurants among the ruins at night and crash the beaches of the Amalfi Coast during breaks. Scenes of Italy—its fashion and its Vespas—were flashed around the world on the silver screen. (Its vast store of sets and props has now been raided for a Cinecitta amusement park that opened nearby this past summer.) It was here, during the famously indulgent filming of Cleopatra in 1962, that Richard Burton gave Elizabeth Taylor gobs of Bulgari jewelry as they carried on an affair—he later quipped that the only word Taylor knew in Italian was Bulgari.
Taking a page from Burton’s playbook, Taylor’s husband at the time, Eddie Fisher, came to Rome and bought her the stunning Bulgari brooch now on display in “Italian Style.” It was too little, apparently, too late—they broke up a couple weeks later. Fisher sent her bill. And she paid it.