SOO #73 - Iris Apfel
The peacock who never needed a flock
Iris Apfel was proof that fashion wasn’t just about clothes—it was about attitude. And Iris? She had attitude in spades, sprinkled with sequins and crowned with a pair of oversized glasses that could probably double as telescope lenses. At an age when most people were settling into a quiet retirement or developing strong opinions about prune juice, Iris became the poster child for flamboyant style and the art of not giving a damn. She wasn’t just a fashion icon; she was a walking exclamation point in a world of ellipses.
Born in 1921 in Queens, New York, Iris Barrel grew up in a time when modesty was the norm, and women were expected to dress like they were perpetually attending a garden party hosted by someone they secretly despised. But Iris was never one for norms—unless it was the norm she personally invented. Her mother, a savvy businesswoman who ran a fashion boutique, introduced her to the art of style early on. Young Iris spent hours rummaging through textiles, learning how to mix and match fabrics, and, most importantly, understanding that personal style wasn’t about fitting in—it was about standing out. Her father, a glass and mirror dealer, must have known what he was doing too; Iris would spend her life reflecting light in all directions.
As a child, she was more drawn to the vintage jewellery stands at flea markets than to dolls or cartoons. While other girls dreamt of fairy tales, Iris was already composing her own visual symphonies out of sequins, feathers, and oddments. Her education followed suit: she studied art history at New York University and attended art school at the University of Wisconsin. And yes, she interned for the legendary fashion illustrator Robert Goodman, where she learned that exaggeration was not a flaw—it was the point.
By the time she married Carl Apfel in 1948, she had already decided that subtlety was overrated and beige was the enemy. In a world addicted to taupe, she was a walking riot of colour. Carl, the love of her life and her business partner until his death at 100, was a bemused accomplice to Iris’s escapades—a quiet, elegant man who seemed to understand that when you marry a woman like Iris, you don't dim the lights; you just let her glow.
Together, Iris and Carl founded Old World Weavers, a textile company specialising in historic fabrics. The name wasn’t ironic—they actually did bring the old world back, thread by thread. Their firm provided upholstery and drapery for the White House across nine administrations. That’s right—while politicians came and went, Iris stayed, like a glamorous spectre of good taste haunting the executive residence. She knew Roosevelt’s rugs, Eisenhower’s curtains, and Reagan’s wallpaper. She probably judged them all. And let’s be honest: of all the people to critique a room’s aesthetic, would you want anyone other than a woman who could pair Mongolian fur with Bakelite bangles?
But Iris’s genius wasn’t confined to business—it was how she used fashion as theatre. Her style could best be described as maximalism on steroids. If less was more, then Iris was the antithesis: more was more, and even that might not be enough. She layered patterns, textures, and accessories with the kind of fearlessness that suggested she was either a genius or a chaos theorist—or possibly both. Her necklaces weren’t jewelry; they were full-blown art installations. Her jackets? More statement than fabric. And those glasses? They weren’t just eyewear; they were her superpower—giant, round, unapologetic circles of defiance against the tyranny of minimalism.
Her wardrobe was less a closet and more a Wunderkammer—a cabinet of curiosities where flea market finds mingled with haute couture like old friends at a cocktail party. And that was exactly the point: Iris didn’t believe in fashion hierarchy. She could wear a $20 caftan like it was Balenciaga because she didn’t need the label to tell her who she was. Her identity wasn’t stitched into the brand tag—it radiated from her like neon confidence.
Let’s not reduce her to a mere fashionista, though. That would be like calling Oscar Wilde “just a guy who liked waistcoats.” Iris was a provocateur, a woman who understood that true style wasn’t about following trends but about creating your own mythology. She didn’t just wear clothes; she curated them, mixing haute couture with flea market finds to create ensembles as unpredictable as they were unforgettable. She made it clear that you didn’t need to be young, thin, or conventionally beautiful to make a statement. All you needed was confidence—and possibly a warehouse full of accessories.
Her attitude toward dressing was refreshingly anti-elitist. “You don’t have to spend a fortune to look fabulous,” she insisted, with the certainty of someone who had turned the bauble-hunting arts into an Olympic event. This wasn’t just talk; Iris famously scoured thrift stores, flea markets, and souks for unique pieces. She loved the hunt, the thrill of finding something one-of-a-kind. Where others saw discarded junk, she saw possibility. A beaded jacket from a Parisian flea market? Paired with a neon tunic and layers of chunky bangles. A secondhand sari? Transformed into high art with a belt and a wink. She treated fashion like jazz—improvisational, unpredictable, and never boring.
She never preached, but she evangelised by example. She defied the entire notion of "dressing your age," treating that phrase with the same disdain she might reserve for Crocs worn unironically. “Dressing your age is the stupidest thing I ever heard,” she once said, a sentence that deserves to be etched in rhinestones and distributed as gospel.
For much of her life, Iris flew under the radar, quietly building her empire of textiles and eccentricity. She was known in certain circles, of course—the kind that owned Louis XIV chairs and knew how to pronounce “chinoiserie”—but she wasn’t a household name. Not yet. That changed in 2005, when the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute staged an exhibition of her wardrobe. It was titled Rara Avis: The Irreverent Iris Apfel, a name that tells you everything you need to know: rare bird, not afraid to squawk.
She was 84. While her contemporaries were perfecting their bridge game or arguing over Medicare plans, Iris was taking over the Met. It was the ultimate revenge of the late bloomer. Suddenly, everyone—from high fashion designers to streetwear brands—wanted a piece of Iris. She became a muse for major fashion houses, a lecturer at universities, and a subject of countless interviews. Her fame only grew when Albert Maysles directed a documentary about her, simply titled Iris (2014). In it, she exuded her signature mix of humour and wisdom, dropping gems like, “When the fun goes out of dressing, you might as well be dead.” Morbid? Maybe. Accurate? Absolutely.
And fabulous she was, but never ridiculous—because she knew. She knew that dressing like a human kaleidoscope wasn’t for everyone, and she didn’t care. In fact, she reveled in it. Her wardrobe was comedy with gravitas. It poked fun at convention while reminding you that there’s no virtue in disappearing. “More is more and less is a bore,” she famously quipped, a mantra that doubled as her life philosophy. Subtlety, it seems, was for mortals.
In her later years, Iris expanded her empire with the glee of someone discovering life’s third act was the most fun. She collaborated with brands like H&M and MAC Cosmetics, launched home décor collections, lent her name to accessories, and became a social media darling. She signed with IMG Models at the age of 97, becoming the oldest person ever represented by the agency. Ninety-seven! At that age, most people are considered legends for simply remembering their Wi-Fi password.
She didn’t just redefine aging; she glamorised it. While society whispered that women should fade quietly after sixty, Iris showed up in technicolour, asked for more light, and stole the show. She made growing old not just acceptable, but enviable.
There was a knowing absurdity to her fame. Iris didn’t just break the mould; she pulverised it, bejewelled the shards, and turned them into earrings. Her mere existence challenged the fashion world’s obsession with youth, homogeneity, and polish. And it wasn’t just ageism she upended—it was the tyranny of restraint. She gave permission to be loud, layered, unfiltered. In a world trained to be beige, Iris was a reminder that joy wears colour.
When she passed away in 2024 at the age of 102, it felt like the world had lost its brightest feather. Her death marked the end of an era—not just for fashion, but for individuality itself. Social media feeds flooded with images of her in outrageous ensembles, but what stood out was the sparkle in her eyes. She wasn’t dressing to be seen. She was dressing to see—to engage with the world on her own terms, and to invite us all to stop taking ourselves so seriously.
Her estate went to auction in 2025, with Christie’s presenting her jewellery, clothing, and objets d’art not as remnants of a person, but as relics of a philosophy. Each piece was a lesson in self-expression. Each lot, a nudge toward freedom. Her legacy was not in the museums, the documentaries, or the endorsements—it was in the people she liberated from dullness.
Iris Apfel wasn’t just a fashion legend; she was a force of nature. A hurricane in bangles. A typhoon in tulle. She taught us that style is a celebration, not a chore, and that being yourself—unapologetically, extravagantly, and loudly—is the greatest statement of all. She proved that fashion isn’t about age, money, or trends; it’s about personality. And if there’s one lesson she leaves us, it’s this: life is too short to wear boring clothes.
In a world that often feels grey and predictable, Iris was a burst of Technicolor brilliance. We’ll miss her sparkle, but her legacy will keep shining—bold, bright, and utterly fabulous. And if the afterlife has a dress code, you can bet she’s already broken it—and thrown a party in its honour.