26/04/2026
An icon I’ve looked for many years! 💕🥰
New York City, 2005.
Iris Apfel was 84 years old when her phone rang.
On the other end: Harold Koda, curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute.
He'd heard she had one of the best collections of costume jewelry in America.
Could he see it?
Iris thought he wanted to borrow a few pieces.
Koda initially asked for accessories and jewelry. Then five full outfits.
By the time Koda and his team finished exploring Iris's labyrinth of wardrobes, cupboards, and storage boxes, they left with 300 outfits and hundreds of accessories.
On September 13, 2005, the Met premiered "Rara Avis (Rare Bird): Selections from the Iris Barrel Apfel Collection."
It was the first time the museum had ever exhibited the personal wardrobe of a living person who was not a fashion designer.
Overnight, the octogenarian with oversized glasses and crimson lipstick became a symbol of audacious self-expression.
Iris Apfel called herself "a geriatric starlet."
The world called her a fashion icon.
Iris Barrel was born on August 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, New York—the only child of Jewish parents Samuel and Sadye Barrel.
Her father's family owned a glass and mirror business. Her mother ran a fashion boutique.
From childhood, Iris was surrounded by texture, color, and style.
As a young girl, she played with fabric scraps at her grandparents' home.
At age 11, her mother gave her $25 to buy a dress for Easter.
The dress cost $12.95. Matching shoes and a hat cost about $8. The train trip: 10 cents.
Iris Apfel was a "black-belt shopper" from the beginning.
She studied art history at New York University and attended the Academy of Art at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
She worked as a copywriter for Women's Wear Daily.
Then, on February 22, 1948, she married Carl Apfel.
In 1950, Iris and Carl founded Old World Weavers—an international textile manufacturing company specializing in reproducing antique fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries.
The Apfels traveled to Europe twice a year, sourcing textiles they couldn't find in the United States.
Their work was prestigious. Luxurious. Sought-after.
And they worked for the White House.
Over their careers, Iris and Carl took part in design restoration projects at the White House for nine presidents: Harry S. Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, and Bill Clinton.
Iris found the White House contract "among the easiest" of their clients—they generally wanted only to replicate what had previously been in place.
The Apfels ran Old World Weavers until they retired in 1992.
They'd been partners for 42 years. They'd traveled the world. They'd built a business and a life together.
But Iris's real masterpiece wasn't the textiles she sold.
It was the wardrobe she built for herself.
For decades, Iris dressed for herself.
Not for fashion magazines. Not for runway shows. Not for approval.
For joy.
She mixed couture with costume jewelry. Paired Dior haute couture with flea market finds. Layered 19th-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.
She shopped at global bazaars, thrift stores, tribal markets.
She wore oversized round glasses—her signature.
She piled on bracelets. Necklaces. Earrings. Rings.
"More is more and less is a bore," she declared.
Her style was exuberant. Fearless. Unapologetic.
She clashed patterns on purpose. Turned her small frame into a canvas of creative joy.
And nobody in fashion was watching.
Because Iris was in her 60s, 70s, 80s.
The fashion industry had no use for older women.
Iris didn't care. She was dressing for herself.
Then came 2005.
The Met exhibition changed everything.
Curator Harold Koda selected 40 objects from Iris's collection—each a promised gift to the museum.
He asked Iris to style the mannequins herself.
The result was pure Iris:
A Gripoix brooch next to a Roger Jean-Pierre bracelet.
A Mexican turquoise and hammered-silver belt beside a Central Asian silver choker.
Eighteenth-century paste earrings paired with modern plastic cuffs.
"Her originality is typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions," the Met noted. "Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity."
The exhibition was a sensation.
It traveled to the Norton Museum of Art in West Palm Beach, the Nassau County Museum of Art in Roslyn Harbor, and the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts.
At 84, Iris Apfel became famous.
In 2014, filmmaker Albert Maysles—known for documentaries like "Grey Gardens"—made a film about Iris.
"Iris" premiered at the New York Film Festival in October 2014.
It captured her wit, her wisdom, her refusal to slow down.
"I go at it full, I'm very passionate about what I do," Iris said. "I put my heart and soul into things and it feeds me. I push myself until I can't anymore and then come back again for more. I'm a glutton for punishment."
The documentary made her even more famous.
Suddenly, Iris—in her 90s—was a global icon.
Then came 2018.
At 96, Mattel created a Barbie doll in Iris's image—complete with oversized glasses, bold jewelry, and vibrant patterns.
Harper Collins published her biography: "Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon."
The publisher called her "a woman who transcends time and trends."
And in 2019, at age 97, Iris signed a modeling contract with IMG—one of the world's most prestigious modeling agencies.
Designer Tommy Hilfiger had encouraged her to get formal representation.
She was constantly sought out for appearances. Collaborations. Endorsements.
Why not make it official?
Iris became the oldest person to sign a major modeling contract.
She worked with brands like H&M, MAC Cosmetics, Ruggable, Ciaté London, Bernardaud.
She visited universities. Gave lectures. Inspired millions.
She proved that style has no age limit.
Carl Apfel died on August 1, 2015, at age 100.
They'd been married for 67 years.
Iris was devastated.
But she kept working. Kept creating. Kept living.
"Retirement is a fate worse than death," she once said.
On August 29, 2021, Iris celebrated her 100th birthday.
On February 29, 2024—her 102.5th birthday—she posted a characteristically ironic and funny message on Instagram.
The next day, March 1, 2024, Iris Apfel died at her home in Palm Beach, Florida.
She was 102 years old.
The legacy of Iris Apfel isn't just in the clothes she wore.
It's in the permission she gave us all.
Permission to be bold. To be different. To be unapologetically ourselves.
To treat aging as an adventure, not a sentence.
Iris rejected the idea that women should fade into beige and navy as they age.
She layered on more jewelry. Wore brighter colors. Got bolder.
"When you don't dress like everybody else, you don't have to think like everybody else," she said.
She proved that true style isn't about what you buy—it's about the story you tell with what you already are.
"Fashion you can buy, but style you possess," she famously declared. "The key to style is learning who you are, which takes years."
Iris spent 102 years learning who she was.
And she shared every colorful, exuberant moment of that journey with the world.
The story of Iris Apfel teaches us something essential:
You don't have to be young to be relevant.
You don't have to be thin to be beautiful.
You don't have to follow trends to have style.
You just have to be yourself—fearlessly, joyfully, unapologetically.
Iris didn't become famous until she was 84.
She didn't sign a modeling contract until she was 97.
But she'd been living boldly her entire life.
The world just finally noticed.
And when it did, Iris didn't dim her light to make others comfortable.
She cranked it up.
More jewelry. More color. More pattern. More life.
"More is more and less is a bore."
That wasn't just a quote.
It was a philosophy for life.
Iris Apfel lived to 102.
She worked with nine presidents. Built a textile empire. Dressed for joy for eight decades.
She became a fashion icon in her 80s, a model in her 90s, and a symbol of fearless aging at 100.
Her message was simple:
Style isn't something you put on.
It's something you radiate.
And the most revolutionary accessory you'll ever wear is the courage to be exactly who you are—at every age.
Age isn't a number. It's an attitude.
Iris Apfel proved that the second act—or third, or fourth—can be the most spectacular of all.
That creativity doesn't retire. That boldness doesn't fade. That joy doesn't have an expiration date.
She lived fully and creatively until the very end.
On her 102nd birthday, she was still posting on Instagram. Still making people laugh. Still wearing those oversized glasses and piling on the jewelry.
Two days later, she was gone.
But her legacy endures:
In every woman who chooses bold earrings over invisibility.
In every person who refuses to dress "age-appropriately."
In everyone who decides that more is more and less is, indeed, a bore.
Iris Apfel didn't just dress for herself.
She dressed for all of us—showing us what's possible when you refuse to shrink.
Rest in power, Rare Bird.
You taught us to fly.
