.jpg)
Last August, The RealReal released its annual Luxury Resale Report, compiled with various figures and stats reflecting purchasing trends in real-time. In it, six brands were identified as “Defining the Cultural Zeitgeist”: Valentino, Loro Piana, Miu Miu, Ferragamo, and—yes—St. John. And to back their claim, they cited that queries for St. John’s classic suits and sets were up 32% year over year. If St. John’s billing in a list of blue-chip Italian luxury brands seems surprising, well, you haven’t been paying attention.
Last year, the old money aesthetic (which, let’s say it, is in desperate need of a rebrand) was at its peak. A new generation was re-discovering blazers without Zoot Suit proportions (boxy silhouettes reigned in post-pandemic fashion), and suddenly, fitted collarless tweed jackets topped wishlists. For some, following this heritage-fueled trend meant unironically buying Zara tweeds; for the dedicated, it meant shopping St. John, whether vintage or new, because few brands can truly back up their old M claims, quite like St. John.
In 1962, the label was founded by Robert and Marie Gray, a husband and wife team who launched the brand after Marie knit a two-piece set—a straight knee-length skirt and a matching short-sleeve shell. Yugoslavian-born Marie née Hermann was modeling (using St. John as her surname), had an eye for fashion, and convinced her husband, then a sportswear salesman, to present her designs to Bullock’s Wilshire department store in Los Angeles. It didn’t take long to get retail buyers and customers on board with the brand—St. John did $92,000 in sales in its first year.
From their sunny HQ in Irvine, California, St. John helped fling the American sportswear category into international view. The original St. John look—A-line swing dresses, cardigans with playful-sized buttons—was certainly informed by what happened at Europe’s fashion maisons, but it never abandoned its sense of quintessentially American ease. If Chanel’s tweeds are gorgeously structured woven jackets, St. John’s are knitted with springy boulcé threads that almost bind to the body—movement (of the fabric and the wearer) is key. The craftsmanship was top-notch (knits were linked and never cut and sewn), crochet trims played up their knitter’s artisanal prowess, buttons were gold plated, and nearly all elements of production were in-house.
As the ’60s jetted into the ’70s, the American woman needed clothes for her hard work and play-hard lifestyle, and St. John delivered. By the ’80s and ’90s, it became a label that dressed politicians' wives and then, as more women entered the sphere, politicians themselves.
In a hilarious article entitled “Close Knit,” published in Vogue in 1998, Robert Sullivan writes of his pilgrimage to Irvine to attend a St. John fashion show—an annual event that welcomed the most devout worshippers of St. John. Sullivan reports on his eavesdropping: One woman announced she had just been skydiving in Tahiti wearing a pair of knit St. John pants, only to be one-upped by a companion who had just been in Shanghai and was presented to then-vice president Al Gore wearing a navy St. John evening suit.
But if there was one woman who represented all the St. John woman represents, it’s, of course, Kelly Grey—daughter of Robert and Marie, former president of St. John, and most memorably, the ever-present Pixie blonde in St. John’s campaigns. Kelly was answering phones at 12 before she appeared in her first campaign at 15. With age, she made an icon of herself throughout the ’90s and the 2000s, exclusively casting and starring herself in every St. John ad for years. The ad concept was formulaic: Kelly doused in St. John in the foreground plus hunks in the background plus a novel landscape. Each ad came with a bit of context, like, “Kelly Gray wearing St. John Evening, cruising Sydney Harbour.”
It was a stroke of marketing genius; in 2020, one W magazine writer even mused how impactful the campaigns were. “I can’t remember the last moment I’ve stopped to think, “Remember that one iconic campaign with Daria Werbowy?” But those St. John ads? Etched in her memory.
Karen Elson now fronts the St. John ads, and per fashion writer and industry fixture Leandra Medine, it’s working. “There’s been a gravitational pull towards more mature style cues in effect since the peak of Alessandro Michele’s reign at Gucci,” she tells Vogue. “I think the completely pared-back basis of the eccentric grandma aesthetic he championed can be found with a brand like St. John, an archetype in its own way of How to Be a Lady.”
Today, St. John is helmed by creative director Enrico Chiarparin; prior to his appointment in 2023, he cut his teeth at Calvin Klein, James Perse, and Miu Miu. Renowned stylist Karla Welch serves as creative consultant. This duo, appointed by CEO Andy Lew, is steering the St. John ship into a new era. Their business is growing; they’re getting all the right red carpet and editorial placements (Jessica Chastain, Issa Rae, America Ferrera, Kirsten Stewart), and later this year, St. John's Manhattan flagship store will open on Madison Avenue, in the red brick jewel-box formerly occupied by Roger Vivier.
On a tour of the factories in Irvine (where a 20-something-foot-tall gallery wall of Kelly Gray ads rightfully greets you), Chiarparin walks me through the fall collection and shows me sketches of a forthcoming spring collection, which will be shown in appointments during New York Fashion Week next week. Chiarparin knows that this St. John woman shares the same DNA of all those who came before her—trends do not interest her. “She’s a woman who knows what JW Anderson or Phoebe [Philo] is doing, but she’s not following the trends. We are not trying to shock her,” he told Vogue.
But that’s not to say there’s no room for experimentation. Last year, Karla suggested a pair of neoprene-esque skinny pants that have since flown off the shelves. And Enrico is betting on a mix-and-matchabilty with the brand’s Foundation line. A gorgeous grey jacket flecked with metallics and enamel buttons will be merchandised alongside a pair of slouchy white jeans.
In her highly read substack, Becky Malinsky styled a current-season open knit, aubergine-colored jacket over a white tee and light-wash jeans. At the Vogue offices, a slinky black knitted blazer with satin lapels I wore with black trousers caught the attention of our fashion market editor, Maddy Fass: “I love your minimalist look!” she exclaimed, surprised to learn it was not Tom Ford for Gucci but old St. John.
Beyond New York and over in the world of TikTok, #vintagestjohn (a hashtag with 17.7K views) yields dozens of videos of girls pairing their knits with crop tops, silver drop earrings à la Bottega, and jeans—their pieces are decades old and yet the look is not pegged to any one era.
Medine hypothesizes that old St. John is actually bolstering appreciation for the new St. John. “The RealReal breeds its own shopping and style cultures….Those iconic and classic brands that have been around forever and haven’t experienced big zeitgeist resurrections, or altered their identities since the start—Armani, Ralph Lauren Collection, Ermanno Scervino, St. John—are becoming sought after on The RealReal,” she says, “and I think that has a real (ha!) retail impact.”