Deja Vu

His obsession with jersey also has been to his detriment.

"Stephen knew that his dresses, like sweaters, had to be folded. But in department stores they had to be hung," says Hardison, who worked as Burrows's creative director. "But matte jersey doesn't live well hanging on a hanger. It starts to shrink in and grow long. So if it arrived as a 4, 6, or 8, after a while it wouldn't fit. All you have to have is a store telling you your clothes don't fit. Forget it. Stephen knew that would happen, but he couldn't convince the department stores."

In 1973, Burrows abruptly departed Bendel's, leaving a trail of bad feelings. He had gotten himself a backer -- the same moneyman working with Halston and Oscar de la Renta -- and launched a new collection. He was winning awards; Jane Fonda and Babe Paley were wearing his clothes. He had licensing deals and a fragrance called Stephen B.

And yet, "Seventh Avenue was a disaster," Burrows says. "No one knew how to make knit clothes. They considered it lingerie. Seventh Avenue considered it cheap." To attract black customers, Burrows says, his fragrance was distributed to discount stores. His brand was suffering, being watered down. And he was acquiring a reputation for being difficult.

In 1982 he left the fashion business altogether and went home to New Jersey. He stayed away seven years. Designed a bed-and-breakfast in Harlem. Made stage costumes. Cared for sick family members. And recuperated from a decade-long party that had left many of his friends dead.

He lost professional momentum and allowed the industry to forget. "I don't have regrets," he says, "because I wasn't happy. I didn't give a [expletive]."

As Burrows has come and gone, like a prodigal son, he always returned to Henri Bendel. He had one final homecoming in 2002, when General Manager Ed Burstell called him out of the blue.

"At that particular moment, what he was doing dovetailed with what was going on in fashion," Burstell says. "There's no denying the incredible talent that spans many, many years. Some of the things from the archive are just as timely today as then."

Burrows's return was heralded with a party during New York's Fashion Week. His old friends were there and he got a bit of press. He was a designer in residence at the store -- just as in the old days. Other stores could come there to buy the collection. But mostly they didn't.

During that period, the filmmaker Jenny Granville was working on a documentary about Burrows, which she is now editing for a screening in the fall. She filmed the party and later remembers waiting in the showroom, with Burrows and Miller, for the arrival of retailer Jeffrey Kalinsky, whose high-end boutiques in New York and Atlanta bear his name. She recalls the tension of anticipation. Kalinsky swept in and within minutes swept out. As Granville recalls it, disappointment descended like a cloud.

Keeping It Fresh

If people recognize the names Bill Blass, Oscar de la Renta, Anne Klein and Halston, then they should recognize Burrows's name as well. These were the five American designers who went to Versailles in November 1973 to represent the United States in an elaborate fundraiser benefiting the palace's restoration. It was like a pret-a-porter smackdown -- Americans vs. the French, who were represented by Yves Saint Laurent, Hubert de Givenchy, Emanuel Ungaro, Pierre Cardin and Marc Bohan for Christian Dior.

The French had live music, Rudolf Nureyev and institutional history. The Americans had Liza Minnelli, razzle-dazzle and innovation. The Americans won -- a victory measured by enthusiastic applause, compliments from the French and celebratory headlines. A Washington Post article noted: "With a precision which had tuxedoed and normally subdued Frenchmen war-whooping with delight, the American models strutted their stuff in the first collective show by five major American designers in Europe. . . . Color, movement, pacing and superb elegant models carried the day against the entrenched home team."