Friday, 2 October 2009


Genlux thinks it is a good idea to have an up to date blog/diary of me at the shows in Paris and I have asked the charming and rather naughty Carl de Canada to follow me with him small but very efficient camera, the cheap version of the Leica. He manages to squeeze photographs out of the most unlikely people. Anna Wintour was a very willing victim, as was Alexandra Shulman. He takes everybody and put them onto his gossipy blog MIXBEAT. Anyway, today he merrily followed me and Rushka around, and it was never dull. We walked straight into Dior, and sat boiling in a huge tent in the Tuilleries with a capacity to hold about 1500 editors and buyers. The show started in a spectacular way: a man with a gun, bang, smoke, screams, and then the blonde, brunette, red-lipsticked, immaculate molls began strutting down the catwalk. It was underwear as overwear: hookers, rich-bitch birds in reds, pinks, purple, creams and beading - Rita Hayworth types, the sort that are mistresses rather than wives. (In this scenario, no one has seen the wife for 45 years, as she is boiling the pasta back at home.) I loved the show - my friend, too - not because of its good taste, but maybe because it embraced bad. It ended of course with the very glamorous John Galliano, my fave, coming out to show his beautiful body, worked-at and muscled. He loved his moment, and so he should because he made it cool to sit in the sweltering heat.
I ran out to find there are as many photographers as buyers. Everybody claimed to be working for either Vogue or W. Little Chinese girls come up and say: please m'am you look so beautiful can we have a picture - so by the end of the day, you feel a star as you are swept away in your black Mercedes. I had to dash home to change clothes as it was so hot I was going to die; also because I wanted to put on my Rick Owens coat.
The Lanvin show could have been a hassle to get into, but with a lot of swagger you can do anything. I didn't have an invitation and, having gone through a labyrinth, ended up in the front row chatting to the fashion editor of the Times. Even funnier was the fact that Gillian, my very good friend from Purple PR, was under the assumption that I had seating... something obviously had gone wrong. So what did Lanvin have to offer? Again, clothes from the 40's and 50's: expensive glam in jewelled reds and greens, the kind of thing a gangster buys his second wife, when the first one has been retired to a nunnery. Afterwards, I had my hair redone backstage by Snowden Hill. Kisses to him, Guido and all the models. Love you! xxx

No comments: