Whatever was put in the rue Cambon flagship—whether it was a miniskirt hemmed with a signature bag chain, Chanel double-C moon boots, or a classic navy blue jacket—flew off the shelves. Karl had installed an appealing and contemporary attitude to a fashion house that had been dead on arrival when he began in 1983. I presumed, incorrectly, that all the frantic buying was typical for Paris, but it wasn’t.
Via Karl and the mythic Chanel atelier, I learned about the nuts and bolts of a couture house. I witnessed how a défilé, or show, was over in eleven minutes. How it required elaborate detail that had to look light and effortless to the audience’s eye. That there were extravagant adventures like ordering a mass of celadon taffeta camellias to match Linda Evangelista’s eyes for an haute couture dress that never hit the runway. And discovering that some models, like Kristen McMenamy—a Karl favorite—were charmingly insane. The shoot was for a Women’s Wear Daily preview. Kate Betts, my Paris accomplice, was the fashion editor. The location was the place de la Concorde. The skirt suit was haute couture and created entirely with pink grosgrain ribbon. Before leaving, the seamstress in question warned me to take care of the outfit. I promised, then got waylaid gossiping with Kate. Little did we realize that once the shoot was finished, the wild-eyed Kristen would rip the top and skirt off and then head toward oncoming traffic wearing only her panties.
Another afternoon, I had to play Naomi Campbell’s bodyguard in the Hotel Ritz. She was convinced that Sylvester Stallone was going to jump on her outside her bedroom or in one of the interminable corridors. Sitting there waiting for the “Black Bardot” (Naomi’s nickname in the French press) to finish her Versace fittings was not the best way to be introduced to Ines de la Fressange.
Wearing a white shirt, cropped black pants, and ballerines, Ines happened to be strolling by with Luigi d’Urso, whom I’d known during my “it girl” days in London. “Natasha? Natasha Fraser, what are you doing here?” he asked. Rolling my eyes, I explained my plight. “So next time, buy a six-pack of beer like all the other bodyguards,” Luigi teased. Fortunately, it was my first and last bodyguard experience.
Linda Evangelista, then a star in the magazines and on the catwalk and famous for saying, “We don’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day,” was the unofficial head girl of the supermodels. Lucid, she would say, “From now on it’s carrot sticks,” if the fit of the Chanel jackets became snug. Ever bold, she tried out every different hair color and was one of the first to crop her hair short. After doing a fitting for Karl that happened in front of Anna Wintour, Liz Tilberis, Grace Coddington, Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, Michael Roberts, and other fashion notables, Linda asked if she should “grow or cut” her hair. “Cut it,” everyone cried unanimously, spearheaded by Anna. It was one of those comradely moments that often happened around Karl.
24 Chanel and Paris’s Social Swirl
Within six months, I was in proud possession of a contract with Chanel. At the studio, I was put in charge of the camellias, working with Madame Jeanne at the Lemarié atelier. In my spare time, I had also created two new fabric prints for Karl. The first was inspired by my father’s losing a chunk of his inheritance on chemin de fer at Le Touquet casino.
Created via decoupage, the print consisted of playing cards that naturally had a double-C insignia, jeweled charms of a gambling nature that I had found in a Christie’s catalogue, and large diamond drops that I described as representing tears spilled at the tables. Karl described it as “fun and very Chanel.” The colors were strictly blue, white, and red—and the adorable Françoise Marlin, who was in charge of fabrics, sent it to Cugnasca.
Françoise had trained under Primrose Bordier, a flamboyant Frenchwoman who’d created a revolution with fabric by imposing different colors and prints. Primrose was brilliant but a bit of an empress. Françoise, on the other hand, was a soft-voiced blond angel dressed in black Chanel crêpe wool outfits and two-tone ballerines. With grace, she was always trying to encourage me to be more soigné. “Ma chérie, perhaps less of the biscuits and sweets . . .” “Ma chérie, gray roots will never do, particularly with men.”
Such advice was needed because Paris was then extremely formal. There were smart parties, even balls galore, where it was de rigueur to dress up to the nines. Jeans were strictly kept for the weekend, as I would discover one Wednesday afternoon when I wore a faded pair on the rue Saint-Honoré. The daring act led to lingering and disdainful stares.
Meanwhile, Marie-Hélène de Rothschild and her best friend, Alexis de Redé, kept le mondain (high society) in check, even if they rarely left the Hôtel Lambert, a magnificent house that they shared on the Ile Saint-Louis, noted for its frescoes by Charles Le Brun in the Gallery of Hercules. The power that Rothschild and de Redé wielded brought to mind the nineteenth century, and elements of Balzac’s novels.
“Marie-Hélène was rather imperious and frightening,” says Bob Colacello. “But Andy thought she had great style and was impressed by the obvious display of wealth.” To such a point that when they attended the engagement party of David de Rothschild, Marie-Hélène’s stepson, held at Ferrières, the fabled country château, the artist turned to Colacello and said, “Why are those portraits in the front of the house not by me?” Then Fred Hughes was rebuked for it. “We were all dazzled,” admits Bob. “It was hard not to be. Americans do not entertain on that scale.”
Meanwhile, social Parisians were “dazzled” by Andy. “He was society’s favorite artist,” says Florence Grinda. “No one else from the art world was invited to balls like Andy was.” Being invited to attend the legendary Surrealist Ball—given by Marie-Hélène de Rothschild—was a huge compliment coming from a famous French hostess reputed for being exclusive and discriminating.
Because of this, Andy et al. really saw only members of Parisian society as opposed to artists. “He loved that line of Fred’s that ‘In Paris, they give dinners against people, not for people.’ The idea being that they can leave people out,” says Colacello. “Andy was kind of fascinated and infatuated by the idea of high society. He approached it like he approached everything, very tongue-in-cheek, pretending to be an innocent abroad.”
In Paris, Andy became acutely aware of the one-upmanship among the Parisian ladies. “They all competed to have the most glamorous dinner parties and food, the grandest decor and the most beautiful couture dresses,” recalls Colacello. “Seemingly more than in New York. Because in New York, you didn’t have to declare your loyalty to one particular hostess and one particular clique like you did in Paris.”
Karl was entertaining too. However, having fallen out with Saint Laurent over his boyfriend Jacques de Bascher, he was viewed as the enemy by the Saint Laurent group. Giving a taste of the era, he invited the English Queen Mother to his eighteenth-century château in Brittany. Alas, I wasn’t asked to that intimate do. I would have relished seeing the Queen Mother stepping out of her Rolls-Royce and saying, “It’s like a painting,” waving her gloved hand at Karl’s roses and then being plied with numerous gin and tonics, her favorite drink. However, I was included in Karl’s fashion dinners, like the one given in Anna Wintour’s honor at Lamée, his country house just outside Paris. The house was packed with famous stylists—I remember Sarahjane Hoare, who was then doing exquisite fashion shoots for British Vogue, talking to Jenny Capitain, a German-born stylist, about her days modeling for Helmut Newton.
Driving back to Paris, Gilles and Victoire decided to stop off at the Bois de Boulogne to see the hookers. They wanted to check out the thigh-high boots and latest trends. This was a laugh, until several policemen came up and accused Gilles of soliciting or even pimping. They must have thought that Victoire, dressed in a Mugler miniskirt suit, and me, in more modest Agnès B., were ladies of the night.
Dinners in Karl’s apartment in Paris were fairly grand. He was the great eighteenth-century expert, as he had read endless volumes about the period and also purchased key items. And from arrival to dep
arture, the candlelit experience was both ethereal and romantic.
Around the same time, the Saint-Bris family gave a Renaissance-theme ball to celebrate Leonardo da Vinci. When working for the French king Francis I, the Italian artist had lived in Château du Clos Lucé, the family’s country home in the Loire Valley. The party’s high point was the arrival of Prince Pierre d’Arenberg, who appeared by helicopter and was naturally playing Leonardo.
Vogue’s André Leon Talley, who had started his journalism career at Interview, gathered quite a different crowd. When throwing a dinner in honor of Madonna’s Blond Ambition World Tour, he invited chic members of la mode and other characters from a creative milieu. It was there that I finally met Loulou de la Falaise. She was friendly, but I certainly didn’t mention our initial call.
Johnny Pigozzi, however, was appalled by my choice of Rifat Özbek skirt for the Rolling Stones’ Urban Jungle Tour concert. “What are you wearing?” he growled. “You look as if you’re dressed for a bar mitzvah.” We were about to climb into a minibus with Larry Gagosian and other high rollers. “Fuck off, Johnny,” I said, or something equally elegant. But I did feel miserable as we headed toward Bercy. Apart from Johnny, who was in his signature Hawaiian shirt, everyone else was in a white T-shirt and faded jeans. What was I thinking? I said to myself as I limped along in my high heels.
Johnny—known for his moods and for his paparazzi shots of Andy—then decided it was quite funny. My early years in Paris often meant staying at his house in Cap d’Antibes, on the Riviera. As long as his telephone wasn’t used, he was a wonderfully generous host who believed in mixing everyone together. Through Johnny, I met Ettore Sottsass, the Italian designer and creator of the Memphis movement; Heinz Berggruen, the German art collector; and Helmut Newton. The latter two men were irresistible. Berggruen took me gambling in Monaco and talked about his affair with Frida Kahlo. “She shaved in between her eyebrows when we were together,” he said. Helmut offered to take my portrait. “Breasts with just a bit of pussy,” he said. “Just a bit.” It never happened.
Within a year, I felt that I had got my social bearings in Paris. And met most of Andy’s friends who were mentioned in his diaries, such as Cristiana Brandolini, Maxime de la Falaise, Florence Grinda, Hélène Rochas, Clara Saint, and São Schlumberger. Making an impact was the presence of the Warhol portrait in the homes of worldly hostesses, as opposed to a grisly lineup of nineteenth-century family ones. And whether it was Grinda, who wrote French Vogue’s social column during the ’70s, or Rochas, who was christened “La Belle Hélène” and held court from her sumptuous abode in the rue Barbet de Jouy, or Schlumberger, who was a patron of the arts and a keen couture client, a Warhol portrait would have pride of place in the salon, often above the mantelpiece.
True, I didn’t know Mr. and Mrs. Mondain—Alexis de Redé and Marie-Hélène de Rothschild. Nor did I want to. They sounded scary and complicated. The only problem was my job at the Chanel studio. It sounded so good, but since I wasn’t obsessed with fashion, I felt like a dilettante. Being three years away from thirty, I was itching to write again but was too proud to admit it. Karl had even started to tell Paris acquaintances that he was “surprised” that I was still in the studio, apparently concerned that it wasn’t “intellectually stimulating enough.”
Then a writing assignment came up via Vogue Décoration, a publication devoted to interiors. It was while compiling the piece on the West Coast that I decided to leave Paris. A fairly radical idea, but being around creative friends in Hollywood who were acting, directing, or writing put me in a radical mood too. Paris was so uptight, formal, and trying, I suddenly decided.
It was simple: I would work for the jeweler Lee Brevard, who had acquired quite a following, and then interview people for television on the side with the goal of getting my own cable show. It defined ambitious, but that’s what was both fun and rather mad about Hollywood, a place of broken dreams and crazy make-believe.
As for Lee Brevard, he was decades ahead with his craft, using a medieval style and chunks of amethysts and other semiprecious stones before anyone else. He thought that my upper-class accent, use of occasional Parisian slang, and strong personality could make him internationally famous. At times when he called up, it sounded a bit far-fetched. Little did I know that dear Lee—who looked well fed and respectable—dabbled in hard drugs. He hid his game well, until he was found dead at a friend’s house.
With newly dyed black hair—my red hair had gone orange in the California sun—I returned to Paris and announced my departure. I didn’t mention Lee or my plans to be the next Barbara Walters, both pie-in-the-sky ideas versus the combined force of Karl and Chanel. Instead, I pretended that I was madly in love. The Parisians would understand. They created the idea of l’amour, l’amour after all. Gilles, however, was horrified. “What is this nonsense?” he said. “You cannot give up an excellent position for a holiday romance.” Then he revealed, somewhat darkly, that he would “have to tell Karl. He won’t like the idea, at all,” he warned. I didn’t care, or thought I didn’t, until it transpired that Karl had said, “Make Natasha leave immediately.” Fortunately, Gilles had calmed the waters by saying that I was un peu midinette (soppy about love) in my relationships but that I treasured working for him: I did.
And suddenly I saw another side of Karl. “Do you really love him, Natasha?” he’d ask while a model was checking out the sleeves of a new jacket or Victoire de Castellane was showing him a set of bejeweled cuffs. And I would insist that I did. “It’s good to be romantic,” he offered. “All women should be. But you should also be reasonable and think about the future.” Then he asked what my mother thought. To be honest I hadn’t dared broach the subject after an ex-boyfriend annihilated the idea.
“Let me get this straight,” he boomed. “You’re planning to ditch the highly regarded Karl Lagerfeld and the illustrious Chanel studio to work for Lee Brevard, a total nobody outside the Beverly Hills.”
Lee Brevard continued to make contact throughout September and October. “Natasha, we need you desperately,” he would say. By November, I came to my senses. And for the Chanel studio’s benefit, I lied and implied that there had been a long weekend with the boyfriend that hadn’t gone well. It blew over and no further mention was made.
However, in February 1991, my life would turn around when Kate Betts decided to leave Fairchild and return to the United States. The episode is chronicled in her bestselling book My Paris Dream. Being a patrician blond beauty who was both industrious and well reputed in the fashion world, she seemed perfect for Vogue. I mentioned her to Anna Wintour, who jumped at the idea. Albeit thrilled—nothing beats helping a close friend—I was reminded of my dissatisfaction at work. Much as I enjoyed the company of my colleagues, I had truly done my Chanel studio experience. And that was when Kate suggested that I meet Patrick McCarthy, who ran W magazine and Women’s Wear Daily. “They need someone like you,” she said.
A secret meeting was arranged at the Ritz Bar. Well, as secret as a meeting could be when a tall person wearing high heels arrives with a monumentally large clippings book. Patrick defined smooth operator: suave, handsome, and au courant—until he laughed; his was both loud and donkeylike somehow. He offered a job in the Paris office, but the actual title had to be confirmed. “Obviously, we want you to leave on friendly terms with Chanel,” he said. Patrick counted Karl as one of his designer intimates.
To make peace, Mr. Fairchild—the big cheese at the organization—had made a point of calling Karl. This was unusual and showed his respect for the designer. As was his way, Karl had said, “Natasha spends her life on the telephone.” But Mr. Fairchild was delighted. “Great, Karl,” he replied, “because that’s what journalists do: spend their life on the telephone.”
25 The Reign of Frogchild
Covering the waterfront at Interview was ideal preparation for Women’s Wear Daily and W magazine. As Bob Colacello and Fred Hughes used
to cry, “Yes we’re superficial, deeply superficial,” and so was I. A media boot camp, Fairchild Publications was often hilarious, occasionally nerve-racking, on a par with the dark moments of Tudor England. Heads could roll. Yet it was never dull. “Did you bring back the bacon?” a senior editor would cry, after an assignment. And I quickly learned the rule that when the door was slammed, it meant climbing in through the window or the equivalent. There was always another way. That when couturiers like Thierry Mugler turned icy cold and said, “I refuse to talk to Women’s Wear,” it was important to repeat the question just in case they changed their mind. Fat chance with Thierry—“I already told you, I refuse to talk to Women’s Wear,” he hissed—but still! And that everything was possible because “I can’t do” was not an option at Fairchild: a key rule for journalism.
After Karl, John Fairchild became my second fashion mentor because he was the real deal. Like most greats, Mr. Fairchild—always addressed as Mr. Fairchild—was interested in the authentic and had a horror of the pretentious and pompous. No question, Fairchild had a sort of genius for his world. He worshipped at the altar of Yves Saint Laurent—I understood, even if Yves’s great fashion moment had been in the 1970s. Fairchild coined the terms “Jackie O,” “hot pants,” “Beautiful People,” and “walker” for those gracing the pages of WWD and W. He understood that the British “shabby chic” lifestyle would become the rage and influence the minimal 1990s.
I first spied Mr. Fairchild at the Warhol Studio. He was one of the contenders to buy Interview in 1987. I can still recall the shock of white hair, his roomy wool overcoat, the sway of his suit trousers, and his polished shoes. Accompanied by Patrick McCarthy, he went up to see Fred, whose elegant figure happened to haunt the society pages of WWD and W.
When encountering him at the Chanel studio, Mr. Fairchild reminded me of an overgrown leprechaun. He had cocked bushy eyebrows and blue eyes that were both alert and amused. In a harmless, old-fashioned way, he flirted as he would with any woman possessing a British accent. “Patrick is wearing his new jacket from Huntsman, what do you think?” he asked. I replied that it was handsome but the buttons were “twinky.” It was my way of saying “queeny,” and Mr. Fairchild loved it. According to Kate Betts, then Fairchild’s bureau chief, twinky became a favorite word for the next few days.
After Andy Page 25