TALL and tan with a wrist full of jangly silver bracelets, Kevin Arpino shouted into his cellphone in a room full of fashion models.
“We need black pipin’,” he said, his profundo basso voice twisted by Dunhill Internationals and a strong North London accent. “Pipin’!” he repeated.
His assistant on the other end didn’t understand. “Piping,” he added with urgency, stressing the “g.” “For the pillows.”
“Such is the price of being English,” he said, but the models didn’t crack a smile. They couldn’t. They were fiberglass.
Mr. Arpino, 60, was standing in the disarrayed showroom of Rootstein Display Mannequins in Chelsea, where he is the creative director. It was the eve of the Retail Design Collective, a three-day event in early December known informally as Mannequin Fashion Week. Showrooms across Manhattan parade new hands, torsos and life-size figures. And though these models can’t use Twitter or Instagram, there is glamour nonetheless.
The hot ticket was the unveiling of Mr. Arpino’s newest collections, which he presents every year in Rootstein’s showroom on West 19th Street. “This year, it’s going to be all black and white,” he said, his dark eyes glittering. “Just like a photograph.”
Brash and particular, Mr. Arpino, who wears only black and white year-round, is a polarizing and powerful figure in the land of plastic people. Some call him the emperor of the windows. His collections (he usually releases two a year) are bellwethers for the small, tight-knit industry.
Though few outside the industry know Mr. Arpino’s name, his work is seen at all retail levels, from high-end stores like Saks Fifth Avenue, Hermès, Lanvin, Chanel and Ralph Lauren, to mass brands like Zara, Juicy Couture and H & M.
Starting at $1,300, Rootstein mannequins aren’t cheap. The company manufactures 10,000 mannequins a year in factories in Tokyo, London and New York. “I refuse to manufacture in China,” Mr. Arpino said.
Rootstein was founded in 1959 by a South African window dresser living in London named Adel Rootstein. Her innovation wasn’t to cast celebrities as mannequins (Mary Brosnan had made mannequins of Babe Paley in the 1940s) but to use youthful models. Her 1966 mannequin of Twiggy remains a milestone.
Under Mr. Arpino’s stewardship, Rootstein’s collections have been theatrical and occasionally controversial. Previous collections have been devoted to sadomasochism, vegetables and “The Great Gatsby.” In 2010, Mr. Arpino came under fire for his Young and Restless collection, which featured hobbledehoys with 27-inch waists. The Guardian ran a piece headlined, “Skinny Male Mannequins Raise Eating Disorder Fears.”
Mr. Arpino remains unabashed. “If you want to blame someone, blame the designers,” he said, before adding, without apology, “Unfortunately, clothing looks better on tall and skinny people.”
For many shoppers, mannequins are the 50-something women of the fashion world: invisible in plain sight. But for Mr. Arpino, each is a person with a story. “I know all of these girls,” said Mr. Arpino, gently popping off the arm of a mannequin named Tamara. “She’s only 19. She was the runner-up for Miss Russia beauty pageant.”
The process of transforming a living model into a fiberglass mannequin takes a year and a half. Mr. Arpino not only oversees the highly technical production, but also the stylistic direction. It requires one to be finely attuned to seasonal trends — skinny jeans call for skinnier legs, higher heels for more relevéd feet.
Mr. Arpino typically holds castings during London Fashion Week in September. Models sit for hours in little more than a bikini over a three-week period at Rootstein’s studios in West Kensington. “Models are essentially just breathing mannequins,” he said. “So it’s not terribly difficult.”
There they are sculptured into life-size clay models as Mr. Arpino tweaks the poses. The clay models are then made into a mold and cast in fiberglass. “Look at these things,” Mr. Arpino said, knocking one of them hard on the sternum. “They last forever.”
The same could almost be said of Mr. Arpino, who has been in the business for 30 years. “One reason Adel picked me,” he said, “is because I knew who the good girls were because I had worked with them.”
Under his direction, mannequins have been made from Yasmin Le Bon, Dianne deWitt and Pat Cleveland. Recent models have included Agyness Deyn, Coco Rocha and Erin O’Connor. “If they can sell fashion in magazine, they can sell fashion in a store,” he said.
This had been an unusually busy season. Mr. Arpino unveiled three collections this month, which were displayed in various tableaus in his Chelsea showroom.
“These are from the collection Sojourners,” he said, pronouncing it as if it were French. The languid mannequins swanned in repose. “Models are the new Gypsies, you know. These girls are from Poland, Russia, Lithuania.”
The other collections were an abstract line, Lift, and another realistic one called Street Boys. The latter, homeless-seeming, were skinnier than the Sojourners and had scruffy stubble.
Mr. Arpino has shown a knack for identifying emerging beauty and capturing its ascent. But to stroll through the showroom is to acknowledge how fleeting that beauty is. ‘“That’s Irie. That’s Dianne. That’s Joe,” Mr. Arpino said, the mannequins looking as youthful as the day they were cast.
There’s one mannequin that Mr. Arpino has vowed never to make: of himself. “Years ago Adel asked,” he said. “But I’d prefer not. It’s just a little too Dorian Gray for my taste.”
“We need black pipin’,” he said, his profundo basso voice twisted by Dunhill Internationals and a strong North London accent. “Pipin’!” he repeated.
His assistant on the other end didn’t understand. “Piping,” he added with urgency, stressing the “g.” “For the pillows.”
“Such is the price of being English,” he said, but the models didn’t crack a smile. They couldn’t. They were fiberglass.
Mr. Arpino, 60, was standing in the disarrayed showroom of Rootstein Display Mannequins in Chelsea, where he is the creative director. It was the eve of the Retail Design Collective, a three-day event in early December known informally as Mannequin Fashion Week. Showrooms across Manhattan parade new hands, torsos and life-size figures. And though these models can’t use Twitter or Instagram, there is glamour nonetheless.
The hot ticket was the unveiling of Mr. Arpino’s newest collections, which he presents every year in Rootstein’s showroom on West 19th Street. “This year, it’s going to be all black and white,” he said, his dark eyes glittering. “Just like a photograph.”
Brash and particular, Mr. Arpino, who wears only black and white year-round, is a polarizing and powerful figure in the land of plastic people. Some call him the emperor of the windows. His collections (he usually releases two a year) are bellwethers for the small, tight-knit industry.
Though few outside the industry know Mr. Arpino’s name, his work is seen at all retail levels, from high-end stores like Saks Fifth Avenue, Hermès, Lanvin, Chanel and Ralph Lauren, to mass brands like Zara, Juicy Couture and H & M.
Starting at $1,300, Rootstein mannequins aren’t cheap. The company manufactures 10,000 mannequins a year in factories in Tokyo, London and New York. “I refuse to manufacture in China,” Mr. Arpino said.
Rootstein was founded in 1959 by a South African window dresser living in London named Adel Rootstein. Her innovation wasn’t to cast celebrities as mannequins (Mary Brosnan had made mannequins of Babe Paley in the 1940s) but to use youthful models. Her 1966 mannequin of Twiggy remains a milestone.
Under Mr. Arpino’s stewardship, Rootstein’s collections have been theatrical and occasionally controversial. Previous collections have been devoted to sadomasochism, vegetables and “The Great Gatsby.” In 2010, Mr. Arpino came under fire for his Young and Restless collection, which featured hobbledehoys with 27-inch waists. The Guardian ran a piece headlined, “Skinny Male Mannequins Raise Eating Disorder Fears.”
Mr. Arpino remains unabashed. “If you want to blame someone, blame the designers,” he said, before adding, without apology, “Unfortunately, clothing looks better on tall and skinny people.”
For many shoppers, mannequins are the 50-something women of the fashion world: invisible in plain sight. But for Mr. Arpino, each is a person with a story. “I know all of these girls,” said Mr. Arpino, gently popping off the arm of a mannequin named Tamara. “She’s only 19. She was the runner-up for Miss Russia beauty pageant.”
The process of transforming a living model into a fiberglass mannequin takes a year and a half. Mr. Arpino not only oversees the highly technical production, but also the stylistic direction. It requires one to be finely attuned to seasonal trends — skinny jeans call for skinnier legs, higher heels for more relevéd feet.
Mr. Arpino typically holds castings during London Fashion Week in September. Models sit for hours in little more than a bikini over a three-week period at Rootstein’s studios in West Kensington. “Models are essentially just breathing mannequins,” he said. “So it’s not terribly difficult.”
There they are sculptured into life-size clay models as Mr. Arpino tweaks the poses. The clay models are then made into a mold and cast in fiberglass. “Look at these things,” Mr. Arpino said, knocking one of them hard on the sternum. “They last forever.”
The same could almost be said of Mr. Arpino, who has been in the business for 30 years. “One reason Adel picked me,” he said, “is because I knew who the good girls were because I had worked with them.”
Under his direction, mannequins have been made from Yasmin Le Bon, Dianne deWitt and Pat Cleveland. Recent models have included Agyness Deyn, Coco Rocha and Erin O’Connor. “If they can sell fashion in magazine, they can sell fashion in a store,” he said.
This had been an unusually busy season. Mr. Arpino unveiled three collections this month, which were displayed in various tableaus in his Chelsea showroom.
“These are from the collection Sojourners,” he said, pronouncing it as if it were French. The languid mannequins swanned in repose. “Models are the new Gypsies, you know. These girls are from Poland, Russia, Lithuania.”
The other collections were an abstract line, Lift, and another realistic one called Street Boys. The latter, homeless-seeming, were skinnier than the Sojourners and had scruffy stubble.
Mr. Arpino has shown a knack for identifying emerging beauty and capturing its ascent. But to stroll through the showroom is to acknowledge how fleeting that beauty is. ‘“That’s Irie. That’s Dianne. That’s Joe,” Mr. Arpino said, the mannequins looking as youthful as the day they were cast.
There’s one mannequin that Mr. Arpino has vowed never to make: of himself. “Years ago Adel asked,” he said. “But I’d prefer not. It’s just a little too Dorian Gray for my taste.”