After finding a studio in the Marais through Fiona Golfar, an English friend, I mentally checked out of Manhattan. When Sarah Giles called about Mick Jagger’s birthday, how sexy he looked and how poor Steve Rubell was sick with AIDS, I kept thinking about the Paris fashion world. Anna Wintour had faxed Gilles Dufour, Karl Lagerfeld’s right-hand man at the Chanel studio; Loulou de la Falaise at Yves Saint Laurent; and Jean-Jacques Picart at Christian Lacroix and then talked about each individual. It was unbelievably helpful. Names are never enough. Then she looked at “The Mermaid and Her Friends,” my collection of jewelry designs.
I’d created the collection because of Min Hogg, editor of The World of Interiors. When I’d casually revealed my plans to create jewelry in Paris, she asked if I’d been to design school or had any experience to speak of. “Because if you don’t,” she said, “I suggest you start doing a portfolio of your designs immediately.” Her delivery was quite sharp—make that harsh—but Min was right. Later she admitted, “I could not believe your arrogance, Natasha.” Actually, it was probably more like foolhardy youthful confidence. Then again, Min’s idea proved to be an excellent one.
I returned to Interview once more to pick up my last check. I bumped into Shelley, who’d clearly heard about Anna sending all the faxes to the fashion houses. Who was her Condé Nast spy? I wondered. “You don’t waste time, do you?” said Shelley. And I replied, “No, I don’t.” Nor did I plan to ever again. Shelley did give me a great letter of recommendation, as did Fred, who managed to freak out when signing his letter and then calmed down and apologized.
When flying to Paris, I drank the water of one of my neighbors by mistake. When I admitted to the fact, she smiled and said, “Pas grave,” meaning “not a big deal.” I liked the pas grave attitude and felt it was a good sign for the future.
21 Andy, Mick, and Yves
I was in love with Paris.
Thanks to Anna Wintour, I met key fashion players within days of my arrival. As Andy’s name sparked interest but Interview magazine didn’t, I quickly abbreviated my New York work experience to his studio. Give the Parisians what they want. Just as I also referred to myself as Scottish, not English—the Frasers were Norman knights, I found myself saying, due to the good “Auld Alliance.”
Others from my past were less impressed. Indeed, the negativity reached an extraordinary crescendo when, within ten days of my arriving in Paris, three different individuals—an ex-boyfriend, an heiress, and Tony Richardson—appeared in my life to deliver the same message: You’re too poor to cope with this city.
Fortunately, an adventurous spirit catches the attention of the Parisians. They are too canny or conventional to be fearless themselves, but they do appreciate courage. It explained why they liked Andy Warhol, whom they viewed as brave and pioneerlike. “Andy represented so much that we respected,” says Jacques Grange. “Provocation, freedom, the Factory, the cinema, and he was totally unique.” Like their mutual friend Yves Saint Laurent—the most influential designer of the second half of the twentieth century—Andy had extraordinary confidence in his craft and knew exactly what he was doing. However, whereas Saint Laurent played neurotic, indulging about his tortured self, Andy was more practical. Enigmatic, he hid his thoughts in public. In diverse ways, both Warhol and Saint Laurent were untouchables. Ultimately, all they cared about was their creation: an attitude that will always win respect in Paris.
Having lived in London, Los Angeles, and New York, I can safely vouch that none of those cities respect the creative with the same passion that Paris does. Many describe the City of Light as being one of the most beautiful capitals in the world yet essentially dismiss it as a historical museum town. Within a few weeks of living there, I became aware of a different heartbeat. Creation, on all levels, was taken very seriously in Paris. Intellectually, it was viewed as more important than the business of money or success.
Six months before my arrival, I. M. Pei had designed his pyramid in the Louvre. It had been unveiled on April 1, 1989, and yet there were still newspaper editorials that were either for or against the building. It was a happening that would have blown over in an Anglo-Saxon capital but not in Paris. People cared and had no fear expressing that they cared.
There was something else. In style, Paris was super-1970s. The decor of the cafés, the grown-up way people dressed, the general formality during the weekdays, the continued sensual influence of photographers Guy Bourdin and Helmut Newton, the admiration for the singer Johnny Hallyday, the golden-oldie tunes of Bryan Ferry, as well as the attraction of film stars like Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty.
Then there were the enduring icons, and without a doubt these were Saint Laurent, Mick Jagger, and Andy. The three men had strong personal ties. Mick had used Andy’s artwork for his Sticky Fingers album cover; he described it as “the most original, sexy and amusing package that I have ever worked on” in the Andy Warhol: A Retrospective catalogue. Bianca Jagger’s wedding outfit was by Saint Laurent. Famously Andy did portraits of both men. Those of Mick were part of Andy’s celebrity series—an experience that Jagger described in the same catalogue as “a very painless exercise,” and “it was fun staying up all night signing the lithographs.” The images were taken from photographs; Andy was using Mick’s fame and charisma to reflect a cultural phenomenon, just as he had with Elvis, Jackie Kennedy, and Elizabeth Taylor. Later, in the Andy Warhol Portraits catalogue, art historian Robert Rosenblum described the lineup of iconic faces as being “perpetually illuminated by the aftermath of a flash-bulb.”
As commissions, Saint Laurent’s four portraits were more personal. Proustian in ambience, a requisite for Saint Laurent, who admired the French novelist, they captured the reflective, inquiring, and anxious side of the designer. Out of all the series referred to as Warhol’s society portraits, which were taken from Polaroids and turned into silkscreens, the ones of Saint Laurent remain among his greatest. They captured the mutual respect between the two. “Yves thought that Andy was the greatest living American artist,” says Pierre Bergé, Saint Laurent’s former lover and business partner. “And Andy referred to Yves as the greatest living French artist.”
Nevertheless, when Warhol first appeared in Bergé’s life, in Marrakesh in the late 1960s, Bergé had not been enthused. Jacques Grange and Loulou de la Falaise had rushed to meet the artist, “and Pierre was so dismissive and accused us of being groupies,” recalls Grange. “But then several years later, who commissions Yves’s portrait? Pierre.”
When Yves received his Warhol portraits, Mick Jagger happened to be present. It was midnight, and Vincent Fremont had been called into the Factory in order to videotape the historic event. The home movie indicates the contrast of styles among the men. A long-haired Mick tinkles quietly away at the piano. Showing his back to the camera and dressed in sloppy clothes, he looks annoyed to be involved. Andy, seated in one of his studio armchairs, wears his signature transparent glasses, dark vest, Brooks Brothers shirt, and jeans. He’s smiling but remains reticent. In fact, it’s very much Yves’s hour. Wearing a velvet pantsuit and bow tie, he’s unusually chatty. “The bottle of Dom Pérignon had just come out,” recalls Vincent. “Because before that he was quite shy.” In rapid fire, he enthuses about Andy’s work, particularly the five mini portraits that were a surprise present from the artist. When all four portraits were bought, Andy often threw in a sweetheart gesture.
Bob Colacello recalls, “Andy and Fred were always afraid of offending Yves and Pierre Bergé.” Nowadays, that may sound strange. However, in the 1970s, fashionable French society was rife with competitive behavior. “You had to declare your loyalty,” said Colacello. And the designer and Bergé were renowned for their exclusive group and for keeping a stranglehold on stylish, sought-after Parisians. Colacello continues: “I was always being told by Fred, ‘Don’t tell anyone that we had lunch at São’s [Schlumberger],’ or ‘Don’t tell anyone that São had her portrait done,’ because she
was really not part of the Saint Laurent group that included Marie-Hélène de Rothschild and Hélène Rochas.”
Although Saint Laurent and Bergé were stalwart Warhol patrons—the designer also commissioned portraits of Moujik, Saint Laurent’s dog—they rarely communicated in English to the artist. “Fred spoke French but Andy didn’t,” says Colacello. “And Andy was always mildly annoyed that they did that.” Then again, when Warhol had his Mao exhibition at the Musée Galliera in 1974, Saint Laurent gave a cocktail party for him at his rue de Babylone home. Nicky Haslam had gone to the show. “I remember Andy arriving and saying, ‘Gee, these paintings are great. Who did them?’”
Paris was the only city where Andy ever stayed in an apartment rather than a hotel. Clara Saint, one of Saint Laurent’s employees and an Andy intimate, had told him about the place. (“I negotiated the deal with the French lawyer,” recalls Bergé.) Situated on the rue du Cherche-Midi in the exclusive sixth arrondissement, it had belonged to Violet Trefusis, and thus had the needed romance and artistic provenance. A well-born English writer and heiress, Trefusis was a renowned personage, reputed for her affair with Vita Sackville-West, the green-thumbed poetess. Virginia Woolf covered their relationship in Orlando, and Nancy Mitford featured Trefusis as a fictional character (Lady Montdore) in her novel Love in a Cold Climate.
The polished wooden steps leading up to the first-floor apartment remain in place. Yannick Pons, the present owner, however, has transformed the nineteenth-century home by breaking down the walls and brought in light by creating extra windows. In Andy’s day, it consisted of three somber reception rooms with stucco walls and high ceilings, a large bedroom under the alcove where he slept, and a little poky bedroom, up a narrow flight of stairs, where Fred was installed. It’s hard to believe that this tranquil spot is in the heart of Paris.
“There were lots of amusing dinners there,” says Gilles Dufour, then a Saint Laurent intimate. “Decorated by Fred, the apartment summed up bohemian chic with its mix of English, French, and Italian furniture that he had acquired from Les Puces or dealers.” And everyone remembers the tulip-covered Art Deco rug designed by Ernest Boiceau because it was so Warhol-like. Dufour, like many Parisians, was amazed by Warhol’s humbleness. “Andy was easy and straightforward,” he says. “He never played up his fame, ever.”
Saint often went to the apartment. “I remember seeing the lineup of Andy’s wigs,” she says. “They were all different. Some were cut short in front and others were cut to the side.” It was in the salon that she organized the Italian Vogue photograph shoot that led to Andy’s being immortalized in a coffinlike space by Helmut Newton. “Helmut said that it was one of the best portraits that he ever did,” she says.
In spite of being referred to as Andy’s apartment, it was actually Fred’s, and indicated their particular financial arrangement that not even Vincent Fremont was privy to. “Fred was not on the Warhol Enterprises payroll,” he says. According to Bruno Bischofberger, “Fred thought he wasn’t paid enough, because Andy gave him art.” Yet the apartment became the base for the artist’s European operations when he came to do his society portraits.
Until his death in 1987, there was a system in place. Andy and his team, which included Colacello until he left Interview in 1983, and Christopher Makos from the early 1980s, would take the Concorde from New York. “Andy believed in traveling first class all the way, as it was tax deductible,” states Colacello. “Andy could be cheap about salaries but not about expenses. He saw that as robbing the IRS.” The artist traveled lightly and well. Still, he had his quirks. “On the Concorde, he stole all the silverware,” Colacello continues. In fact, greedy to have more—“the silverware was designed by Raymond Loewy,” states Makos—Andy used to shove trays from the cocktail service into the photographer’s bag. “He always felt, ‘Well, the tickets are twelve thousand dollars round-trip,” says Makos. During those trips, Colacello realized that it was a myth that Andy didn’t read. “That was just a PR pose, because he read the newspapers and traveled with big, big biographies, often on Hollywood personalities but not only.”
Colacello hated the Paris apartment, where he was “relegated to a little place in the basement” that Yannick Pons viewed as “unfit for an animal” before he transformed it. Nevertheless, fun times were had. “Fred would go out antiquing and on his long walks,” Colacello recalls. “And Andy and I would do the diary or work on the philosophy book and then we’d meet Fred, who would set up Polaroids for someone’s portrait.” Makos recalls flying to places like Düsseldorf or Cologne—“not your glamour capitals,” he says—then being Andy’s de facto assistant. “Andy would do the Polaroids and I would peel them off. It was kind of ‘If you’re spending twenty-five grand for a portrait, you better put on a show of some sort.’”
22 Getting the Keys to Karl’s Kingdom
In the late ’90s, when fashion exploded with big brands and billionaire businessmen, Karl Lagerfeld began to be viewed as the Andy Warhol of his world. For American Harper’s Bazaar, I would even write an article comparing the two. Called “Karl’s Posse,” it was illustrated with a photograph of the designer surrounded by his far-extended pals and members of his studio.
Later, I discovered that Karl resented the comparison. “First of all I’m better groomed,” he told The New Yorker in 2007. “And, also, [Andy] pushed people. I never push people. There was something more perverted in his mind than in mine.”
Karl is straightforward, as well as brilliant and entertaining in four languages. At fashion shoots, I’ve stood at his side while he’s made people laugh in German, French, Italian, and English. Andy played at being faux-naive and passive, and Karl is cantering ahead, keen to show that he understands and cares. He dares to be vital.
Refer to Karl as an artist and he’ll get annoyed. “I am a fashion designer who makes clothes,” he has said. “I am not an artist.” He doesn’t like to refer to old collections, because he’s always looking forward and ahead. Just as Andy was instantly recognizable, the same could be said of Karl’s signature appearance of white ponytail, high collar, and dark suit. He has dabbled successfully in every medium and has become famous for his self-portraits. He has made models into stars. Motored by a commercial sense, he still has fun with fashion. Andy needed a small entourage around him. Karl did and still does. Call it required protection against fans.
When I arrived in Paris, the German-born designer had had an almighty bust-up with Ines de la Fressange, his former muse. Having admired everything about the tall, slim, aristocratic beauty, Karl was suddenly spitting tacks about her in the press. It made me a little nervous, even if the breakup was dismissed as momentary by the fashion savvy. In fact, whenever I mentioned the Chanel studio and the possibility of assisting Karl, the reaction was unanimously positive. “He’ll love you,” people kept saying, as though it were a fait accompli. Initially I was pretty happy about this, and then I began to nurse doubts. What if Karl didn’t “love” me? Actually, what if he couldn’t stick the very sight of NF? There was always that chance.
Oddly enough, there were several Warhol connections with the house of Chanel. In 1985, two years before his death, Andy had done a print series of Chanel No. 5, the legendary fragrance. In 1973, Karl had also acted in L’Amour, one of Andy’s movies, which was inspired by How to Marry a Millionaire and cowritten by Warhol and Paul Morrissey. Certain scenes were filmed in Karl’s Left Bank apartment. Nowadays, the designer dismisses the film as “the most childish moviemaking ever.” He also rolls his expressive eyes, albeit hidden behind dark sunglasses, when certain folk refer to it as “a masterpiece.” Yet he’s there playing Karl, a fashion designer, offering sage advice to a gigolo (Max Delys), a beauty industrialist (Michael Sklar), and two hippies searching for sex and rich husbands (Donna Jordan and Jane Forth).
As with Andy, much has been written about Karl. He intrigues on every level and has the requisite three T’s to succeed in fashion: talent, t
iming, and temerity. Everything is then furthered by his extraordinary curiosity and Prussian discipline. In fashion, I cannot think of anyone who works harder than Karl—he draws all his own exquisite sketches—and is as turbocharged, in spite of his international success. Many creative types, at some point in their career, descend into decadence and are brought down by drugs, drink, or an inflated ego. Not so “the Kaiser,” as Women’s Wear Daily called him, and not so Andy in the art world.
Waiting to meet Karl in 1989 took weeks and felt interminable. Though I knew to temper my impatience, every ten days, I would call up Gilles Dufour and ask if there was any news. He was always unfailingly polite, but there never was “any news.” It defined frustrating. However, in the interim, I met other principal characters in fashion and that gave a firm grasp of la mode’s landscape. Since Karl was being proclaimed “king of the hill” left, right, and center, at least I would have something to compare him against.
I was warned that Loulou de la Falaise, working at Yves Saint Laurent, was unpredictable. “Catch her at night,” one friend advised. Forgetting this, I telephoned Loulou in the morning. “I cannot see you until the end of October,” she explained in raspy tones. When I thanked her, she became vexed. “I haven’t promised you anything yet,” she said.
Christian Lacroix was sweet but otherwise engaged. His fashion house on the Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, spruced up by the Paris-based designer duo Elizabeth Garouste and Mattia Bonetti, resembled Alice in Wonderland. There was a continued theme of playing cards, enlarged mushrooms, and eccentric furniture. Adding to the impression was the sight of Lacroix rushing down the stairs, decked out in a thick tweed suit. Not quite the Mad Hatter but elements. Mopping his brow, he was then followed by Jean-Jacques Picart, his CEO and business partner, and a team of rail-thin ladies who looked equally tense. They were leaving on a trunk show for the United States, accompanied by France’s leading fashion journalists, and nothing was ready, or so Picart claimed.
After Andy Page 23