In the family, they already tell stories about Herman Komar's son, young Charlie. How at two he crawled up on to his great-aunt's lap to show her the picture he had crayoned -- "my factory," he announced proudly. How at five he would sit in a garment bin while his father pulled him through their New Jersey plant, down the long rows of sewing machines, past the piles of lace and trim. Day after day he would hear the tales of his grandfather, an immigrant just eight years over from Russia, starting out back in 1908 on New York's Lower East Side with a few seamstresses and $500 bowwowed from the Hebrew Free Loan Association. Even before he could read, Charlie would perch at the kitchen table with his dad, trying to decipher the days' CVO, cuts versus order, the pulse beat of the family's lingerie-manufacturing business.
Today, no one sells the Charles Komar & Sons Inc. line better than 25-year-old Charlie. Or works harder. By 10:30 a.m, when he meets the day's first buyer in the lobby of the company's Madison Avenue showroom, he has already charged through five hours, run the three miles to the office, read The Wall Street Journal and the mail, showered and changed into a crisp tan suit, white button-down shirt and red rep tie. He has talked with his uncle and his cousin in design, his nephew in production, his brother-in-law in sales, one of his 12 salesmen on the road, and his banker. He has talked with his father, twice. And today he is taking it easy. During market week, just six days away, the office will be filled with would-be buyers, some 100 different accounts a day, everyone in the family will show the line, and Charlie will just come in to close. Today he has only one appointment with a buyer, a newly promoted executive from the corporate office of a multistore chain. For her, he finds the time to preview the latest step in his ongoing transformation of the company.
Selling the line comes naturally to him, he started part-time in his teens. But the line he will show today is a radical departure for Komar. The garments are still American-made, value-oriented products branded with the family name. But everything else has changed. There is a new merchandise mix, a new marketing plan, a new production system -- and a new generation in control of the family business.
Charlie looks too young to be the heir apparent to a $40-million company, let alone the man responsible for changing it so drastically. Tall, with an athlete's grace and a Tom Sawyer smile, he ushers the buyer into his showroom, eagerness written across his face, chatting cheerily before he sets to work.
Inside is a riot of color and mirrors, with hundreds upon hundreds of garments on clear plastic hangers draped around the room -- orchids, aquas, and violets, solids and stripes, cotton, tricot, denim, and Sa- tinessa. Each year, lingerie manufacturers have five, week-long opportunities to sell to the stores. This is the smallest of the year's five, and Komar has only 70 new styles coming out. For this morning's buyer, he will show only 30 or so, arranged in groups of 5 or 6. He has been selling her for a year and a half; he knows her taste.
"Essentially we felt there had to be some newness to the market this time, so it's short and it's sweet," Charlie says, starting with a set of candy-striped cottons. "My designers always want me to show the fashion goods first, but I know what sells."
"Uh huh," the buyer responds blandly. She sits with a 12-page style and price list in front of her and a can of Tab at her side, smoking Carltons and occasionally fingering the fabrics. She knows she will buy. Komar has a history in her stores: a year and a half of increasing sales figures at a moderate price point, with good markup and strong sell-through. Komar's products won't go in the store windows like the designer goods, but they won't hang on the markdown rack at the end of the season, either. And she is charmed by Charlie's boyish enthusiasm -- not that she doesn't haggle, hoping for, say, a dime a piece.
"Go ahead and ask," he smiles, "the worst I can say is no." He will haggle, too. Discounts come straight out of profits.
No one sells the line faster than Charlie; 15 minutes after he meets the buyer in the lobby he is ushering her out the door, drafting the letter confirming her order in his mind. "And remember," he promises her happily before the elevator door closes, "we're going to have at least 10 more new groups next market, too. We'll be making some big statements."
That is the biggest change of all, and the reason for Charlie's flush of good cheer Over the past four years, he has reshaped his legacy, turning Charles Komar & Sons into a "big statement" company
Ever since 1908, when Charlie's grandfather started selling high-neck, open-front, long-sleeved gowns and drawstring bloomers, the Komar name has meant high-value, moderately priced goods sold in volume. In 1917, Komar introduccd the first American-made slip, that slip, indestructible and changeless, along with sturdy cotton nightgowns, supported the company when Charles's sons, Herman and Harold, took over. Cotton robes, dusters, and patio shifts came later. Production drove the business, with the same few styles churned out year after year. Through the Depression, the war years, the '50s, the '60s, and the '70s, Komar grew, up to $25 million in sales by 1979, a 400% increase over 20 years. The Komar history of profitable quarters stretched unbroken back to Charles Komar's days on the Lower East Side.
Starting in the '70s, however, the lingerie market began changing, much as the ready-to-wear market had changed, and for much the same reasons. The baby boomers were growing up, and their tastes were shifting. Komar's traditional customer base started to shrink. The company couldn't run a pattern for six months before it was copied, to be manufactured in Haiti or Hong Kong at a fraction of Komar's cost, then sold through the discounters. The department store and specialty buyers moved upscale to compete, to designer and fashion lingerie, away from the basics that had built the Komar fortunes.
At the start of the 1980s, when Charlie came into the business, Komar was at a crossroad. The company was still growing and still profitable. Its market share had never been bigger. But the market itself was dissolving in front of Komar's eyes. "Every time I hear a hearse go by I lose another customer," Charlie insisted. The Komars had always measured risk by the same simple scale -- "how much can we lose, and can we afford to lose it" -- but if they didn't change direction now, Charlie warned, they could lose everything.
