I was there to introduce my scarves, inspired by the house of Lacroix. Concentrating, Picart flicked through my twelve designs, went back and looked at several twice, but ultimately declared, “They’re much too Chanel for us.” He then called Lacroix’s studio to see if there was an available position. The place was full.
Ariel de Ravenel, running Kenzo’s fragrance division, was so enthusiastic about my jewelry designs—“They’re quite beautiful and probably rather right for us,” she said—that the head of accessories was called down to meet me. I was also given a tour of the Kenzo studio, full of chic young women sporting buns and crammed into brightly colored Kenzo pants. Nevertheless, employing a non–French speaker was out of the question.
François Lesage, on the other hand, was unpleasant. A self-acclaimed Napoleon, in charge of the great house of embroidery, he flicked through my jewelry collection and ended with “Learn to draw, and swiftly too.” I was slightly surprised. “Because you don’t stand a chance with these images,” he continued. “They are much too primitive and naive.” When I mentioned Gilles Dufour and Chanel, he shot me down with “Well, prepare to be disappointed, because your precious contact Gilles is best described as Karl Lagerfeld’s valet.” He went on and on about how difficult Paris was. Adding insult to injury, Lesage then terminated the meeting with an unexpected display of flirtatious behavior. “I won’t forget you,” the slimy toad promised, sketching my eyebrows. Afterward I collapsed on the stairwell outside and sobbed. It was all rather nineteenth-century, even if sex hadn’t taken place.
Gaining composure, I found a telephone booth (this was before cell phones) and called Susan Train at American Vogue. After all, she had arranged my meeting with Gilles Dufour and the lousy Lesage. “Ignore François,” she said calmly, in between taking drags on her cigarette. “He doesn’t know the ins and outs of Chanel. Besides, Gilles liked you and was pleasantly surprised, seriously.”
Frances Stein—then creating silk ties, wool scarves, and other duty-free accessories for Chanel—was not so sure. “No one in that studio could be described as reliable,” she warned. Her attitude was probably colored by the fact that Karl et al. nicknamed her “Frankenstein.” Personally, I found Mademoiselle Stein to be a hoot. Chic and skinny (it made sense that she’d been an editor for Diana Vreeland at Vogue and was pals with Halston), she sat on the floor, surrounded by swatches of elaborate Italian fabrics, speaking a smattering of Italian and French to a gripped audience of three women, and dipping into an enticing box of chocolates. “Take one,” she said, pushing it my way. It was a command as opposed to an offer.
Predictably, it was thanks to Anna Wintour’s final and rather sharp nudge that I ended up at Chanel. After October’s ready-to-wear collections, she had hosted Vogue’s party at the Petit Palais museum. Just when Gilles Dufour—my new best friend!—and I were busy mugging for the cameras, Anna appeared. She was wearing high-heeled strappy sandals, and her sculpted legs were pushed back to their limit, insinuating attack mode. “So, Gilles,” she said. “When is Natasha starting at the studio?” Gilles looked mildly surprised and then came out with “The end of November, Anna.” A mission accomplished smile briefly appeared on La Wintour’s face before she turned and walked off.
It was amazing to witness, even if the gallant Gilles was left looking mildly perturbed. David Shaffer, Anna’s then husband, happened to be standing nearby and proudly compared his spouse to Wellington: a general of few words but much action. Indeed!
23 The Chanel Studio
By the end of November 1989, I was finally working at the Chanel studio. To quote Jean “Johnny” Pigozzi, the French-born playboy and billionaire, I was “living in the rue Cha Cha [my apartment was on the rue Charlot in the Marais] and working at Cha Cha.” The slight snag was being paid a monthly two pence. Naturally I complained to Pigozzi, who replied, “The trouble is that you look rich.” It was a “trouble” that I viewed as a plus, and quickly stopped whining about my lack of funds, my argument being, if I looked the part, it was enough.
When I did finally meet Karl, I was thoroughly seduced. Initially, it was the ceremony. The fleet of tote bags filled with books, colored pencils, notebooks, and gifts appearing before he did. Then there was the seemingly simple but fairly grand entrance. Chanel’s ground-floor receptionist telephoned to warn that Monsieur Lagerfeld was on his way up. Lipstick was applied, high heels were slipped on, and there were gasps of “Karl” as soon as he pushed open the studio’s door. It was enjoyable to witness the first time and actually every time.
Gilles brought me forward and said, “Karl, this is Natasha Fraser, who I’ve been telling you about.” But the great man with the powdered ponytail refused to look up. “Yes, I’ve met her mother through George Weidenfeld,” he said while burrowing through a bag. (It made sense; Weidenfeld, my mother’s highly social Austrian-born publisher, had fingers in fashion, art, and politics.) Far from being put off by his strain of shyness, even if hidden under a defensive front, I was reminded of my stepfather, Mick, and Malcolm McLaren. Indeed, anyone who’s wary of being scrutinized in spite of being in the public eye.
A few days later, my second encounter with Karl proved dreamlike. At Gilles’s insistence, I showed him my jewelry collection and my scarf fabrics. After choosing two pairs of earrings—one was a blue enamel seahorse and the other a mussel holding a baroque pearl—Karl focused on a fabric. The pattern was of a teapot pouring out jewels. He took a large piece of paper and a thick pen, quickly marked how the teapots should be placed, and then handed it over to Gilles. “We’ll add some double C’s and use it for prêt-à-porter,” Karl said. And the following ready-to-wear season, my teapots were splashed across a black satin silk fabric. Manufactured by Cugnasca, the Italian silk house, it was used for Chanel blouses and jacket linings.
This was an excellent beginning that I would instantly mar by catching hepatitis (or “hip hop hep,” in the words of the artist Dominique Lacloche, my childhood friend). Like most dramas in my life, my bout of hepatitis was a result of my greed. When wolfing down seafood, I was warned to be careful of the sea snails, to avoid anything that was hard to retrieve. But I ignored such sage advice, only to turn yellow “like a banana,” to quote my new French doctor, and discover the importance of the liver, an organ of which I had hence been unaware when living in England and America.
For a month, I lived in my mother’s house. Suddenly I was back in the world of the Moustaches—as the writer Peter Morgan used to describe my dusky-haired girlfriends such as the novelist Kate Morris and Dominique. Finally, I could meet my three godchildren, Tancredi Massimo, Ella Harris, and my niece Stella Powell-Jones. I encountered Mary Byrne’s domestic setup—the first of my generation to tie the knot—and also spent time with my grandmother Elizabeth Longford. After a simple lunch in her Chelsea flat, we would spend hours talking. She compared us to characters from a Tolstoy novel, whereas I was always surprised by her openness and modernity of thought. Such cozy factors had been lacking when I was living in the United States for four years. But though content to be back in Europe, I nursed no desire to live in London.
When I returned to Chanel, my very first ready-to-wear show had a series of Warhol-influenced prints. It was an auspicious sign. The prints were camouflage-like with a mix of day-glo Pop colors; Karl’s idea was to make silk shirts that his star models would wear over leggings and mules: a look channeling Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, the in-demand Vogue stylist.
Carlyne—whom Gilles nicknamed “Carlyne Horse”—possessed a dynamic way with accessories and clothes. Whatever she wore looked apt. In many ways, she was my first experience of Parisian chic, because she weaved in personality with taste. Camille Miceli also caught my eye. Then working in Chanel’s press department, she had a way of mixing clothes that defined charming. True, her body was ridiculous—in the summer months, Camille would appear in swimsuits!—but there was an innate knowledge of colors and details. When Gilles nickna
med me “Nathalie Fraîcheur,” Camille shortened it to “La Fraîcheur.” Many complain that Parisians lack humor. Not when they’re authentic to themselves.
At the Chanel studio, I was working in the fashion equivalent of Mount Olympus. The beauty of supermodels such as Linda Evangelista, Christy Turlington, Claudia Schiffer, Naomi Campbell, Helena Christensen, Karen Mulder, and Yasmin Le Bon was incredible. Yet I couldn’t stop eating. Gilles had warned that I needed to watch my diet post-hepatitis. It was considered wisdom that I failed to follow, which led to my packing on the pounds. Unlike the heroine from a Paris-based novel, I didn’t suddenly transform into a sylphlike creature in a little black dress and pearls.
Oddly enough, it didn’t matter to Karl. A complexion snob, he was taken by my porcelain skin, describing it as “flawless,” and he even took my portrait on several occasions. The first time was embarrassing. I couldn’t even squeeze a plump forearm into the teeny Chanel clothes and had to be artfully wrapped in fabric. Yet miracles via Victoire de Castellane’s costume jewelry and Chanel’s opera-length gloves were achieved and I ended up resembling a Spanish infanta.
In general, Gilles was always after me to make an effort and “be less of a big bully. Please, Natasha, heels or lipstick,” he would say before Karl arrived. I didn’t, for the simple reason that it annoyed and I was more occupied calling my English girlfriends. As Karl later said: “Natasha, you spent your life on the telephone.” Hard to believe, but even when he was present—and that meant fittings of models, discussions of fabric, or choosing of accessories—I would continue to yack away with my pals.
There were also the calls from Alain Wertheimer, Chanel’s big boss and co-owner, telephoning from his private plane. I could never understand him. And he could not understand why I answered the phone when I neither spoke French nor knew who he was. When Karl was around, I occasionally looked up and caught his glance. There would be more than a hint of amusement and warmth, otherwise I would have hung up—somewhat wisely. Instead, I would smile back—my face had dimples then—and swiftly return to the mindless gossip concerning London’s W11. When Karl met my mother at a lunch organized by Liz Tilberis, then British Vogue’s editor, he said that I reminded him of a Belle Époque actress because I was always in a good mood. Karl, on the other hand, was the master of the thoughtful gesture. Once when leaving for New York in 1990, he asked if he could buy me anything. “Ava Gardner’s memoir,” I said, and quickly forgot. A week later, the book appeared.
Without Karl around, the Chanel studio resembled a finishing school with ooh-la-la elements bringing to mind Colette’s Gigi. Gilles reveled in teasing the models. “This season, we want all the blond models to dye their hair black,” he told Karen Mulder, renowned for her fairy-tale-princess coloring. He then nervously and quickly called the Dutch supermodel back. Meanwhile, he encouraged all the studio assistants to make more of our assets. “Wear tops to show off your bosom, Natasha,” he advised. “A bosom is the female equivalent of a grand zizi [big penis].” There were also the hair-coloring sessions. With my profile, I could resemble Kim Novak, or so he felt. No one else quite saw the comparison. So I was marched off to Édouard at Carita beauty salon. A large man with a delicate touch, Édouard was Catherine Deneuve’s secret weapon. Every month or so, he added luster to her glorious mane of cornsilk hair. He refused to do any more than a light frosting to my hair—“She has a brunette’s complexion,” he stated—but agreed to bleach my eyebrows. It was a bit of a non-event, but then Gilles trumped it with my flame-haired phase. “You’ll bring to mind Jane Russell, that other bombshell,” he enthused. I didn’t, and Karl was appalled. “Natasha, that color is dreadful,” he said. “You look like the madame of a nineteenth-century brothel.”
But Gilles remained determined to transform me. He shared his plans with Monsieur Alexandre—then Paris’s most famous coiffeur and responsible for Chanel’s runway dos—who naturally boasted Miss Russell as a client. “Why don’t we cut off your hair first?” Monsieur Alexandre suggested. And after plonking myself in the middle of the studio, he did precisely that. “Off, off with the bush,” he cried in English, with scissors in hand. This led to my shaking with laughter, which was quickly joined by Gilles and the small band of coworkers who understood my mother tongue.
I was lucky. Almost everyone in the studio was welcoming and kind. There was Armelle Saint-Mleux, who helped me with my lack of French. Franciane Moreau, who shared my sense of silliness. Virginie Viard, who impressed me with her extraordinary precision and excellent British accent. Victoire de Castellane, a marquis’s daughter and Gilles’s niece, who was always playful. I admired her passion for jewelry and her elegant manner with everyone from artisans to models. Karl often sent Victoire down the Chanel runway. Maybe she lacked a model’s height, but her Penelope Tree–like face and coquettish personality revved up the photographers.
And then there was my first fashion meangirl. Workwise, it was impossible to fault the former model. When a thousand of Chanel’s signature silk camellias needed color coding, she was the person. Nevertheless, she was always making snide remarks about my weight and dress sense. I refused to react. But it was relief to discover that almost everyone felt the same way as I did.
Once when the meangirl wasn’t around, a fair amount of tittle-tattling about her went on in front of Karl. There were a few salacious rumors. After listening, he barely reacted. “Everyone is free,” he said calmly. Of course, there was a collective look of disappointment, but I actually respected his attitude. The following season, to perhaps mark his point, Karl both photographed the meangirl for one of his exhibitions and used her for the catwalk.
During that period, the studio’s workload revolved around the four collections: haute couture and prêt-à-porter for fall–winter and spring–summer that happened in January, March, July, and October. In preparation, Karl’s sketches were distributed to the respective ateliers, which were either flou (drapery and dresses) or tailleur (suits). Three characters come to mind—Madame Edith, who ran the prêt-à-porter flou atelier; Monsieur Paquito, who was responsible for the haute couture tailleur; and Madame Colette, who ran haute couture flou.
Madame Edith was a dragon but humorous and a bit of a titi parisienne (street smart). Having worked for Gabrielle Chanel, she was an authority on the Chanel style, a style that Karl was busy breaking up and making contemporary. Occasionally, she took issue with some of his ideas. He showed respect by patiently listening to her technical problems, tolerating her occasionally barbed comments but gently persuading her to his way of thinking. Karl never raised his voice, whereas Edith went from squawking to quiet, then walking off, as if on air; Karl’s undivided attention did that. I wondered if Madame Edith was a lonely old soul on the romantic front, but I was informed, “Au contraire,” there were girlfriends. Madame Edith certainly had crushes on models like Marpessa and Dalma: the more boyish and narrow-hipped, the more enthusiastic she became.
Monsieur Paquito was a Latin charmer. He enjoyed teasing and had the easy confidence of someone immensely skilled at his game. His jackets defined perfection and clearly gave tremendous satisfaction to the mischievous Spaniard. He only got testy when Karl was late on Friday night, because that was Monsieur Paquito’s appointed evening to pull young men (I presume at nightclubs). Whenever I went to England, he was on my case to buy poppers, I suppose for his Friday sessions. In poor French, I tried to say, “That’s not quite my bag, Monsieur Paquito.” And he was amazed. “But all the other Brits I know take every drug under the sun,” he replied.
Madame Colette was different. Dark-haired and good-looking, she was more nervous than the other two. Since I was smiley and polite—I lapped up her picture of a sea-swept bare-chested Alain Delon pinned prominently in her corner—she always offered me biscuits or other homemade treats when I went up to collect outfits from her atelier. The “on dit” was that she and Monsieur Lesage—my bête noire—were close. After clicking his heels aro
und Karl, he did scamper up the narrow staircase to her atelier. At the time I was horrified but now understand. Monsieur Lesage, or François, who I later came to befriend, was a flirt and probably made the melancholic head seamstress laugh.
Poor Colette had a ring of doom around her head. Unfortunately, her career at Chanel would end dramatically during the couture show in July 1990. Her mistake was sending Christy Turlington and Linda Evangelista out in two spectacularly embroidered redingotes with matching thigh-high boots. All well and good, except the flap covering the pelvic area was left unfastened on each coat. So both supermodels appeared flashing their panties. Karl was fit to be tied. His clients, such as Caroline of Monaco, on the other hand, saw the funny side. “Does this mean that we’ll be showing our panties next season?” she asked the actress Carole Bouquet.
Both women had known Andy Warhol. He had even taken Polaroids as well as done commissioned portraits of Princess Caroline for French Vogue. Just as there was a swirl of famous or social women around the American artist, there was the equivalent with Karl. However, whereas such types saw Andy at the Factory, usually at one of the celebrated lunches, Lagerfeld separated church and state. His Chanel studio was reserved for high-powered fashion professionals. Celebrities like Sylvester Stallone and the singer Michael Hutchence were allowed entry only when their ladyfolk were in the show.
Such visits usually happened a day before the collection, when accessories were chosen and added to outfits. Karl managed to do it all—inspect the models and the look of the clothes, as well as charm the person, such as Hutchence, sitting next to him. In his studio, Karl had an infectious joie de vivre.
After Andy Page 24