Keeping the Faith

Photo by Estelle Hanania

Pierre-Alexis Dumas contemplates the artistic future of Hermès.

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Unlike its 8th Arrondissement neighbors, which endure regular droughts, this flagship hosts a continuous stream of people poring over vitrines of silks, discussing details of their Birkin-to-be, picking out a cult étrivière bracelet. While surrounding stores blast songs (“Another fading beauty of the Sunset Strip” was a recent, perhaps ill-advised lyric heard at Givenchy), this one has only ambient bustle as its soundtrack. Also, it has two art installations and a saddlery department. It’s as distinct from its peers as its iconic orange boxes are distinctive—and its differences go deep. While (nearly) all of its main competitors— including Louis Vuitton, Chloé, and the Gucci group—are owned by the luxury conglomerates LVMH, Richemont, and PPR, Hermès, founded as a saddlery and harness maker by Thierry Hermès in 1837, remains in the family. When the dynamic figurehead Jean-Louis Dumas retired two years ago (having succeeded his father, Robert Dumas, in 1978), it reached the sixth generation. Nowadays, while (unrelated) CEO Patrick Thomas takes care of its business, co–artistic directors—and cousins—Pierre-Alexis Dumas and Pascale Mussard nurture its soul.

Can a luxury brand that’s lusted after by the world’s social climbers really have a soul? After roaming the extensive private parts of 24, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, learning about Pierre-Alexis Dumas’s current passion of printing Art on scarves, taking in the haunting private museum of handmade, largely equestrian-themed objets, and generally breathing the Hermès air, I honestly believe that it can. These items, to which only the most privileged tranche of humanity can aspire, are not fashionable fripperies. They represent a grand heritage; they seem to embody a vital facet of culture.

Pierre-Alexis Dumas certainly thinks so. I meet him in his clean, white, glass-walled office in an extension at 26, Faubourg that has just been completed by architect Rena Dumas (a.k.a. Mom). Dumas fils is a philosopher of the artisan tradition into which he was born. He says things like: “We are the keepers of culture” and “We are the holders of a great tradition.” He does not mean red-carpet culture, or the tradition of gifting celebrities. “I call what we do quality manufacturing—not luxury,” he tells me. “We’re not expensive, because to be expensive you have to be vain. We’re costly. We have a devastating passion for detail. Our fight for quality is forcing us to strive for a better world.” This does not come off as pretentious, partly because there’s a small stuffed leopard on a shelf poised to pounce on his head and partly because Dumas— dapper, handsome, soft-spoken—is utterly sincere.

Joining the family firm was not a given; Hermès descendants need to make a conscious decision and to prove their worth before they’re let anywhere near the cogs and wheels. Dumas’s teenage years saw a great expansion of the company, which, he says, wasn’t discussed at home beyond the usual “How was your day?” chatter—though his father Jean-Louis’s office stories, full of exotic foreigners and tempting travels, were unusually exciting. Even if the family firm wasn’t examined over dinner, the very walls were steeped in, so to speak, Hermessence (the name bestowed on a line of unisex Hermès scents in 2004). Successive generations of offspring had the run of the store, the workshops, the design ateliers, and especially, the phantasmagoria of playthings crowding great-grandfather Emile-Maurice Hermès’s offices, now the museum.

This oak-paneled suite on the third floor isn’t really a museum. It’s open only by invitation, a sensuous experience of Hermès DNA meant to inspire collaborators, designers, family, and guests—among them Jean Paul Gaultier, creative director of Hermès’s ready-towear line; house perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena; and such late friends-of-Hermès as Grace Kelly and the Duchess of Windsor. As the delightful, elegant, poetic curator (for 22 years) Ménéhould de Bazelaire puts it: “It’s a homemade collection—it’s very free.” The oldest piece dates from 1000 B.C., yet there are no labels. The organizing principle is if it’s handmade, exceptional, and horsey, Emile-Maurice was attracted to it. (Same goes for his descendants, who continue to add to the collection.) A filigree bucket turns out to be an 11th-century piece of German armor, a helmet for a horse. There are wooden travel cases customized with dozens of silver boxes for every purpose, slotted inside with jigsaw precision. One of Dumas’s special favorites as a boy, a trunk made in 1807 for a minister of Napoleon, has elaborate concealed locks, one brass mechanism after another clicking open at an invisible touch, revealing multiple secret layers. In Emile-Maurice’s desk drawer are giant curvaceous zippers that he discovered in Canada and introduced to Europe as the fermature Hermès—a name that clung tenaciously to French zippers long after Emile-Maurice’s two-year patent had expired.