PHOTO BY RILEY KERN
Ellen Lavinthal was the driving force behind West Hollywood's fur ban.
More stories from our 2012 Fashion Issue on dressing ethically: *West Hollywood's New Fur Ban *Does L.A. Still Have Sweatshops? *Yael Aflalo's Reformation Makes Vintage Cool *Santa Monica's Main Street, a Green Fashion Hub *Three L.A. Designers Who Do Eco-Fashion Right
PHOTO BY RILEY KERN
Ellen Lavinthal was the driving force behind West Hollywood's fur ban.
PHOTO BY RILEY KERN
John D'Amico wants WeHo to be a "model city" for fur bans.
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Ellen Lavinthal, a sassy brunette whose long-standing credo is to always give voice to her truth, is something of a misfit. She lives in a well-appointed 1925 Tuscan mansion in Beverly Hills with her successful husband, her daughter and numerous rescued cats and dogs. But she grew up with a father who ran guns for the Israeli underground and later moved the family every few years as a top executive for the charitable organization United Way.
"Wilmington, Delaware," she says with a sigh on a recent afternoon at her fur-free home. "I got there when I was in the fifth grade and the kids called me 'Jew Pickle.' That was my nickname. I started crying and went home."
Lavinthal and her husband mix and mingle in exclusive Beverly Hills social circles, but she got suspended for a month from the posh SoHo House in West Hollywood after handing a fur-clad woman at the club a graphic brochure about the pain and suffering inflicted on animals to make fur jackets and hats.
"It was Sunday brunch," she recalls. "I've done this many times before, but this was the time I got in trouble."
Lavinthal, who is in her 40s, has dedicated more than 20 years of her life to the humane treatment of animals, but, as her past implies, it's a question of fit. Some of her fellow activists can't help but question whether she's truly one of them, with her huge, elegant home north of Sunset Boulevard in the 90210.
"They look at me and how I live, and they don't think that I could possibly know what it feels like [to be an activist]," Lavinthal says. "But I really put in more hours than most of them because this is my dedicated job."
When misfits have a passion and a mission, they have an uncanny way of making things happen. That's especially true of Lavinthal. In November 2011, West Hollywood politicians passed a ban to stop the selling of fur apparel — the first ban of its kind in the United States and possibly the world. Lavinthal was a driving force behind it — and she doesn't want to stop with just one small city. She wants to end the sale of fur apparel across the nation — although experts don't see much of a chance of success.
"Animals are suffering right up to the minute they die — for a luxury product," Lavinthal explains. "That bothers me. ... Women think that fur makes them look rich and glamorous, but to me it makes them look selfish and uncaring, and a lot of people view it that way. You're a selfish person."
Many fashion retailers in West Hollywood disagree, although few will say that on the record, fearing that placard-waving animal-rights activists will march in front of their high-rent showrooms.
"It was so hard to get stores to speak up because of the [threat of] retaliation," says West Hollywood Chamber of Commerce president Genevieve Morrill. "Because they become a target for PETA [People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals] and people in the anti-fur movement."
Paul Nicoletti, co-owner of Henry Beguelin, a high-end clothing store on Melrose Avenue, whose customers flock in for its stunning $2,000-$4,000 shearling jackets each fall, says, "What they've really accomplished is they've made business, which is already very difficult, even more difficult for those of us that signed leases before this ban was put into effect."
Nicoletti adds, "We don't do fox. We don't do exotic furs. We do shearling." Shearling, a lambskin or sheepskin pelt (think Ugg boots), is considered by some to be a separate category.
Patrick DiLascia, fashion designer and co-owner of PAR-LA, a hip urban clothing store for men, says, "I don't like people telling me what I can design or can't design. Whatever inspires me, I want to make. Every store has the right to carry fur. People can choose whether or not they want to buy it."
DiLascia is none too pleased with West Hollywood councilman John D'Amico, one of the main architects of the fur ban. He calls the politician's fashion sense "a little sloppy." The fashion designer also noticed that D'Amico walked into his store wearing leather shoes. "I don't know why you would be against fur and wear leather. It's hypocritical, right?"
In September 2013, the fur ban kicks in. Behind the scenes, however, the Fur Information Council of America (FICA), the politically connected lobbying arm of the fur apparel industry, which happens to be headquartered in West Hollywood, is developing a legal strategy to overturn the city's ordinance.
"At some point," says FICA attorney Larry Lasoff, "it will probably become a legal battle. There are a number of people itching to challenge it, and there are a number of solid arguments to challenge it."
In liberal West Hollywood, where the City Council approves headline-grabbers such as ending the declawing of cats and banning the sale of puppies and kittens in pet stores, the fur ban follows a long tradition of animal-friendly legislation.